The Private Dance
by atmd888
Summary: AU, Rogan. Roped into attending a conference in Alaska, Logan suddenly finds himself falling for a local waitress. She turns out to be way more than he bargained for. But maybe that's a good thing.
1. The Convention

A/N: This is a story all about misconceptions and how life never quite turns out how we expect it to. More importantly, it's a story all about **Rogan** ;). The chapters are quite short, so I'll try to post several at a time. The rough draft of this story_ is fully written,_ so it should be updated very quickly and will not be abandoned or put on hiatus.

I hope you enjoy, but even if you don't, feel free to tell me in a review!

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Hilighter in hand, Jean rifled through her conference bag trying to dig out the agenda. "Logan, do you mind?" she asked, shoving a stack of adverts, brochures, and handouts at him as she sorted the mess.

Logan allowed her to pile papers on his arms with minimal grumbling, wishing Scott and 'Roro would hurry the hell up. He was starving. "When's that 'MRA and State's Rights' thing gonna be over?" he asked.

Jean glanced up at him, laughing tiredly. "Soon, Logan, I promise. Look, I appreciate you coming with us to this. I think people really _responded_ to seeing you, a survivor. My talk on mutant experimentation has never been so well-received. Believe it or not, we're making a difference here. Changing one mind at a time."

Logan simply grunted. He didn't particularly enjoy letting a bunch of rich people stare at him like he was some sort of circus freak, but Chuck had been after him to go to one of these events for years. He had finally caved.

And it was even fucking worse than he'd thought.

He glanced impatiently at the adjacent meeting hall, willing the doors to open and pour out his fellow X-Men. If he didn't feel bad leaving Jean to wait all by herself, he'd have hightailed it out of The Statehouse Convention Center of Anchorage, Alaska twenty minutes ago.

At least it was Alaska. He had a feeling if this thing had been in D.C., they'd have made him wear a suit or something. He could crawl out of his skin just thinking about it.

"You're growling. Relax, Logan. Just relax."

Jean's voice grounded him, soothed something deep inside him. After his memories were restored, he had realized that his attraction to the fire-haired beauty was partly misplaced, some twisted remnant of the maternal affection he'd felt from another woman long ago. Still, to this day, the sight of red hair and the sound of a soft alto voice never failed to calm his animal side, and she knew that.

She rubbed his shoulder and purred, "Why don't we skip the last session of the night? We can all go out for dinner once Scott and Ororo are finished."

Logan sighed in relief. "You read my mind, Jeanie."

"Yes," she said with a teasing smile, "I did."


	2. The Restaurant

"Jose's Cocina," Ororo read the snow-covered sign. "It sounds fine to me."

Logan stuffed his keys in his coat pocket and sauntered over to join his teammates as they piled out of their shiny black rental SUV.

"Think it's authentic?" Jean asked.

He snorted. "La cocina de Jose."

"Gesundheit," Scott quipped.

Logan would've whapped the idiot in the back of the head if he didn't fear knocking his glasses off. "That's how you would say 'Jose's kitchen' in Spanish, Cyke. Not Jose's cocina. La cocina de Jose."

"Huh. So . . ."

"So it's probably not authentic, but who the fuck cares. Let's eat." And with that, he made his way inside.

Logan heard only two people moving around in the kitchen, and the restaurant itself was fairly quiet. An old man sat in one corner, eating only chips and salsa while he watched college football. A group of college-age boys were watching the game too, their dinners long finished as they sipped on beers and margaritas. A young couple, an old couple, and three bikers rounded out the mix-and-match crowd.

_Well, at least we won't be the only table full of weirdos,_ he thought sardonically.

A young woman emerged from the back, a large tray of food balanced on one hand and a pitcher of tea in the other. She caught sight of the four X-Men and pursed her lips in a little 'O' before rushing off to fill the tea and set down the plates for her patrons.

"Hi, how y'all doin' tonight?" she asked somewhat breathlessly, sliding the tray under her arm and making her way over to them.

"Four," Jean replied.

"Oh. Um, of course." She shifted the pitcher to her other hand and grabbed up four menus. "Follow me. Um, sorry if y'all were waitin' long. Y'all from outta town?"

"Yes," Scott offered, "New York."

"Oh, wow," she said with genuine awe as she arranged the menus and silverware on their table. Logan noticed that little wisps of mahogany hair were sneaking out of her ponytail, and her cheap white blouse had come untucked at some point. She looked a bit careworn, but she smelled really good.

_Really_ good. Whoa. He breathed her in again, surprised by his visceral response. He'd felt it before, that instant animal attraction, but never so intensely.

Something in him made him lean closer, drawing in more of that scent. Attractive, was the only way he could describe it. And now that he took the time to notice, she had nice features too. Real pretty eyes, if you ignored the dark circles underneath. And that sweet southern drawl, that was nice. Unexpected, but nice.

Jean shot him a knowing—and perhaps vaguely disgusted—look, and he realized that everyone else had taken their seats while he was still standing there, sniffing the waitress. He cleared his throat and slid in next to Ororo.


	3. The Drinks

"So, what brings you folks to Anchorage?"

"Business," Jean said crisply, shrugging out of her tailored jacket to reveal a recently pressed, immaculate white blouse. "I'll have a Diet Coke."

_Jealous_, Logan thought loudly, hoping she would hear him. Jean was mostly a nice person, but she could be a real bitch to other women, even ones who didn't pose a threat to her precious alpha-female status.

He didn't really understand it. She had no claim on him. And Scott was on such a tight leash, he wouldn't dare glance at some waitress. Still, Jeanie could be insecure. And when she got insecure, she got catty.

The waitress set the pitcher and tray down on an empty table, smoothing her own wrinkled shirt self-consciously. She pulled a pen and pad from her jeans pocket. "D-diet Coke. Yes, ma'am." She looked over at Ororo.

"Water, please," the weather witch requested.

Scott chimed in, "Coors Lite and a water for me."

Logan didn't like the change in her scent, that nervousness and insecurity now hanging over her, and oddly enough, he found himself extremely pissed at Jean for upsetting some girl he'd only met one minute ago.

"And for you, sir?" the girl queried.

"Don't call me sir." He didn't like the way that sounded, like he was better than her or something. He didn't like that at all.

"Oh. Um, sorry, si—I'm sorry."

He grunted. "Don't be sorry. Just don't call me sir."

Great. Now she smelled even more nervous, not to mention confused. "O-okay. No problem. What would ya like to drink?"


	4. The Waitress

Logan mindlessly shoveled down his food as his eyes followed the waitress around the restaurant. She had a certain way of moving. Graceful, careful. It was easy for him to get caught up in watching her, and he found himself growing antsy whenever she disappeared back into the kitchen.

"So, I think after the breakfast lecture, we'll attend the session on . . ." Jean had picked at her food briefly before pulling out her agenda and hilighter once more. Scott leaned into her, pretending to read along.

Logan zoned out all talk of the stupid Mutant Affairs Annual Convention and gulped down the rest of his Canadian lager. "Ahh." Yet another bonus to holding this thing in Alaska.

The waitress appeared at his side almost instantly. How did she do that? "Would ya like another one, sir?"

This time, he tried to lighten his tone, make it a little more teasing. "Now, what did I say about callin' me that, darlin'?"

She caught onto his teasing demeanor and managed to tease back, despite the blush that crept over her features. She planted her hands at her hips. "Well, 'scuse me for havin' manners. Ya want another beer or not, bucko?"

He just raised an eyebrow. "Yes, ma'am."

She blushed even harder at that. Her eyes swept over the rest of the table. "Can I get y'all anything else?"

"The check," Jean murmured, not looking up from her papers. "And you can take this." She gestured to her barely-touched plate as if it were carrion on the side of the road.

The waitress picked up the plate along with Logan's empty beer. Her scent didn't turn as upset this time, and Logan couldn't help feeling a flicker of approval. This one had Jean's number. She wasn't going to let some uppity bitch get to her. Good girl. She disappeared back into the kitchen.

Jean turned to Scott. "Cain aye git yawl ennithin' eltse?" She said between giggles.

Scott laughed. "Poor kid. Probably couldn't read the road signs. Someone should tell her this is Alaska, not Arkansas."

Logan just rolled his eyes. What a pair of fucking brats. That was really how they seemed to him sometimes, like bratty little children. They may wear fancy suits and give talks at big conferences, but they just didn't get it. It was times like this Logan wondered why they talked so much about mutant equality, when they clearly thought they were better than everyone else.

Judging by Ororo's scent, she wasn't too happy with her colleagues' remarks, either. Probably wondering if they made fun of her accent too.

They did, frequently. But he figured he probably shouldn't tell her that.


	5. The Tip

"Nah, you all go on. I'm gonna stick around, have a few more beers. I'll catch up with you tomorrow," Logan said as the others stood up from the table.

Jean just raised a delicate eyebrow at him as Scott led her out of the restaurant. "Uhuh. You have fun with that waitress, Logan."

He merely shrugged. "Maybe I will, Jean. Maybe I will."

-

Logan glanced at the game only often enough to keep up with the score, drinking steadily and watching the customers come and go. He'd been here for hours, but then, so had that table of college kids. He figured it wasn't too weird, as long as he was pretending to watch the game.

He wanted to chat up the waitress a bit, but she was so damn busy. She was the only one working the restaurant it seemed, other than the cook. If she wasn't waitressing, she was bussing the tables or working on who-knew-what back in the kitchen.

Just as he was downing the last of his beer, she showed up at his side with another. She popped the top off and set it in front of him. "Still doin' alright over here?"

He looked her over, drawing in her scent as inconspicuously as he could. She had fixed her hair at some point and tucked her shirt back in. "Yeah, darlin', I'm good. They keep you awful busy 'round here."

"Um, yep," she said. "Well, enjoy your beer." She picked up the credit card slip left by Jean for the dinner and paused. Her scent shifted again in that way he really didn't like. "Oh, did I—? I'm sorry. Was everythin' alright with your friends?"

Logan shrugged. "Huh? Yeah, why?"

He could swear he saw tears coming to her eyes. "Nothin'. Enjoy your beer."

Logan grabbed her arm to keep her from walking away—and she flinched as if he'd hit her. He let go abruptly, snagging the receipt from her hand. "Lemme see that."

The waitress had written 'Thank You' and drawn a little smiley face on the receipt. That was—that was kind of cute. But his eyes narrowed where the line next to 'Tip:' had been marked through. "She stiffed you?" he asked incredulously.

"I dunno what I—um, sorry. I . . . sorry."

Logan shook his head. "What the hell are you apologizin' for? You didn't do anything. Jean—she's—well, frankly, she can be a bitch, darlin'. Don't let it get to you. Look, I—here." He dug his wallet out of his back pocket to give her a tip.

The girl definitely looked like she was going to cry now. Shit. "No, I couldn't—please don't—I couldn't take your money. Um, just, tell her I said sorry, okay?"

Logan tilted his head and stared at her. "What the hell for?"

"F-for whatever I did to make her—"

"Hey, honey, one more round!" one of the college guys called out.

"Oh. Sure thing!" she said, scurrying away before Logan could say anything else.


	6. The Fantasy

Logan fumed. If Jean had ruined his chance to get with this girl, he'd wring her damn neck. She had to know she'd mess up his chances with the waitress by not tipping her. Not to mention it was just a generally crappy thing to do, especially when the service had been good.

Logan watched the object of his desire as she passed yet another round of beers and margaritas to the college boys.

He tried to ignore the way they flirted with her. The last thing he needed to do was start growling in the middle of a restaurant.

She bent across the table to pass one of the boys his beer and her shirt came untucked again, exposing a band of creamy-white skin at the small of her back, not to mention giving him a perfect view of her ass in those tight jeans. He watched appreciatively, the image of her in cowboy boots and a Stetson hat taking shape his mind.

Yeah, that'd be hot. In those jeans. Maybe she owned a pair of boots. He'd happily let her borrow his hat. And maybe his belt buckle. Yeehaw, cowgirl. He wondered what a nice little southern girl like her was doing up here, anyway, waiting tables at some hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant in Anchorage.

That thought was like a bucket of ice water thrown over him.

She really was some nice southern girl, he realized. Not a flirty, past-her-prime truck stop waitress. Definitely not a stripper, a hooker, a fight groupie, or any combination thereof. She was . . . sweet. Shy. Innocent. He didn't pick up girls like her.

More aptly, she wasn't the type of girl who got picked up by guys like him.

Shit. Well, there went his little fantasy.


	7. The Doll

Logan kept telling himself he was going to go soon.

After the next beer.

After the game was over.

The next time she walked past his table.

He just wanted to smell that subtle, sweet smell one more time. Just one more time.

And now it was ten minutes past close. The restaurant was empty except for him, the tables had been cleared, and she was sweeping the floor. The cook, a middle-aged Hispanic man who had the annoying habit of leering at her chest and calling her _mi muñeca_ had finally left.

In brief snatches of conversation, Logan had managed to find out that her boss was supposed to show up and pay her tonight, and she was sticking around since he seemed to be running late.

She finished sweeping the whole restaurant and finally sat down.

Logan glanced over at the register. "Why don't you just take your pay out of the cash tray, darlin'? Leave him a note or somethin'?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, I couldn't do that. He'd kill me."

He could tell she'd meant for it to come off as a joke, but there was a genuine fear in the words that he didn't like one bit. "Well, how long are you gonna stick around waiting for this dickhead?"

She fidgeted in her seat. "Um, I'm not sure. I—I just really hope he shows up."

Logan slowly raked a hand through his already wild hair. Damned if he wouldn't feel guilty as hell leaving her by herself at night, much less alone with a man who would kill her for taking the pay she had earned. He glanced out into the pitch-dark, snowy night, then back at her. "Don't feel right leavin' you alone. I'll wait with you."

She seemed equal parts afraid, embarrassed, and grateful. "Ya don't hafta do th—"

"I want to."

Gratefulness came to the forefront. "I—I dunno what to say." She smiled, and even that expression looked a little sad on her. "Thank you, sir. I mean, I mean, thanks."

"Don't mention it."


	8. The Smile

An hour later, the waitress was casting increasingly nervous glances at him in between rounds of stilted conversation. She filled his glass of water yet again, though he'd drunk less than a third of it. Finally, she conceded, "I—I guess he ain't comin'. I'm so sorry I made ya wait for nothin'."

Again, the sincerity of her apology bothered him. Why was she so damn subservient, so meek? She reminded him of a puppy that had been kicked too many times. "Quit apologizin' for stuff that isn't your fault. And you didn't make me wait. I offered."

"Right. Sorry." She blushed. "Oops. Guess I do apologize an awful lot."

Logan grunted. "I'll walk ya to your car, honey."

At that, fear crept into her scent again. "Th-thanks," she said a bit warily, grabbing her long green coat and purse from a hook on the wall.

Logan wanted to reassure her that he wasn't some creep, but he figured any attempt to do that would only make her more scared. He settled for giving her some space, walking over to the door and holding it open for her, then keeping a meter or so between them as she locked up. They made their way to the far edge of the lot.

He wasn't terribly surprised to see that her car was some old piece of shit blue Civic, the sort that looked like it may or may not make it down the block intact.

She unlocked the door and turned to face him . . . and he was suddenly struck by how delicate she looked in the moonlight, how pristine—so out of place amidst the dirty, slushy snow, the dumpsters and the asphalt and her ugly blue Civic. Her pale, pale skin was luminous in the blue-black night, cheeks and nose pink from the cold, pouty lips slightly parted, rich coffee-brown eyes shining with tears from the harsh winter wind.

That wind beat her fearful scent against him, and he took one more step back from her, hoping to ease the assault on his senses. He studied her tightly wound body, poised to run at the hint of a threat. But she seemed intent on showing her gratitude nonetheless. "Well, thank you again, s—I mean, Mr.—um—"

"Logan," he offered neutrally, folding his arms across his chest and letting his eyes linger on her moonlit features, hungrily imprinting her in his memory. _Invite me home with you,_ some darkly hopeful part of his mind begged, curious to see her body underneath those clothes, to smell her tantalizing scent mixed with his.

But he knew she wouldn't, smelling all scared like that. She probably never had, and never would, invite a strange man home with her. She was the type of girl who fell in love with some nice, decent guy. She was the type who could convince a man to take care of her and give her some nice little life, little house, little kids, vacations and school plays and late nights by the fire—yeah, she could do that. She could make a man really happy doing that.

Some other man. Not him. Those kinds of things weren't for him.

"Mr. Logan. You're—you're a good person. It was real nice of ya to wait with me. I'm sorry for wastin' so much of your time, and I um, I hope you have a good night." She ducked her head a little and smiled quickly, as if smiling were some cardinal sin that she was ashamed to be caught committing. And then she turned to climb into her car.

"Goodnight," Logan said, glancing over her clothed form once more, drawing in her scent for the last time, a little wistfully.

"Goodnight." The door closed, and she stole one more look at him through the window, then put her keys in the ignition.


	9. The Confession

Logan turned and started across the lot to his rental, a new-model, shiny white Mustang. He had already started the keyless ignition when he stepped out of the restaurant, so the leather seats were growing warm by the time he pulled the door open and climbed in. He glanced back across the lot at the old blue Civic, feeling inexplicably . . . guilty. Or sad? Or . . . sorry for her, maybe. No, that wasn't right.

It was a dull sort of ache. Compassion? Was this what compassion felt like? He shook the unfamiliar feeling, turning up the Bose sound system to drown out his thoughts.

Then he noticed, as he started to pull out of the parking lot, that there was no smoke coming from the exhaust of the waitress' car. Heaving a sigh, he pulled in beside her and stepped out.

She was busy digging through her purse for something and didn't seem to notice him, so he rapped briefly on the window.

She jumped like a frightened doe, clutching her hand over her heart. That hand held a toothbrush, he noticed with a hint of curiosity. She rolled down the window.

"Oh, gosh, you gave me a scare," the waitress said, shivering from some mix of cold and fear, and Logan could hear her heart struggling to regain its normal rhythm.

He was getting awfully sick of that fear marring her enticing scent, keeping him from enjoying it. It seemed unfair, as if he were being deprived of something he deserved. He shook his head, shook that thought away. "Havin' car trouble? You need a jump or somethin'?"

She set the toothbrush down, and he noticed that there was a beat-up duffle in her passenger seat. She sighed. "No, I don't . . . it's fine."

He leaned into the car, spotting a blanket and some more clothes in the backseat. "You sure?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine, really. Goodnight."

Logan simply stood there.

When it became apparent he wasn't going to accept that for an answer, she blurted, "My rent's up, alright? I was gonna pay it tonight. I took my stuff outta the room, in case . . . just in case." She gestured to the duffle. "Since I didn't, y'know, get paid tonight, I can't go back there. I'm just gonna . . ." she trailed off.

"You're gonna . . . ?" he prompted, though he knew what she would say.

"Sleep in the car," she muttered, keeping her eyes trained on the steering wheel. Embarrassment overrode the fear in her scent.

_Stupid girl_, he thought angrily, then regretted it. It didn't seem right to say, to even think, those words about her. "You'll freeze," he said flatly. "You can't stay in your car on a night like this."

She swiped at her eyes. "Yeah, well I don't have a lotta options," she shot back, and for the first time he heard a trace of fire in her voice, something fierce inside her that life hadn't managed to beat into submission just yet.

Logan shoved his hands in his pockets, debating whether to invite her back to his room. Part of him desperately wanted to, but he was almost certain she would say no, and he didn't want to face the sting of that rejection. Still, he couldn't just leave her there.

A girl like her had to have other options, people she could go to. There had to be tons of people out there who wanted her, people who took care of her and missed her when she was gone. Even he had people like that, Chuck and the X-Men. "Don't you . . . surely you've got some friends or family or somethin'. Somewhere you can stay for the night? I—I can't just leave ya here in the parkin' lot, darlin'."

She sighed, swiping at her eyes once more. "Um, yeah, of course. I can go to—don't worry. Really, I appreciate everything you did for me tonight. Don't worry yourself. I've . . . got someone I can stay with."

Liar.

She twisted the key in the ignition, and the engine finally turned over on the third try. She forced a smile as she started to roll up the window. "Thanks again. Bye, Mr. Logan."

He breathed her in, faint traces of sweetness and sorrow dissipating into the night. "Bye."


	10. The Silk Stocking

He told himself he wouldn't follow her.

But when her car turned left out of the parking lot, and he started to turn right, all he could imagine was her breaking down on the side of the road somewhere, getting found by someone less scrupulous than him. He thought about some faceless man towering over her, how scared she would be and how that would spoil her pretty, delicate features and her pretty, delicate scent, and he just couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let something that beautiful get ruined.

So he followed her. Just to see. Just to be sure.

She pulled into a lot only a couple of miles away.

The Silk Stocking, said the neon sign above the club entrance.

He followed her into the parking lot and pulled in right next to her, because in all honesty, he probably would have wound up here even if he hadn't been following her. He would have stumbled into this place, drunk an entire bottle of Jack, and found himself a petite brunette to take back to his hotel.

He stepped out of the Mustang, locked it, and strode over to her car with a quirked eyebrow. "Fancy seein' you here," he drawled as she stepped out of her own car.

She whirled, caught sight of him, and her features . . . crumbled . . . into something mournful, something so tragically gorgeous that he literally felt his heart twist, as all the air left his lungs in a rush. There was just _something_ about her. Something instinctive, so primitive that even he couldn't fully understand it.

He had no idea what it was, but he responded to her. She moved him, somehow, made him _feel_ things. "What are you doing?" he wondered, and he wasn't entirely sure what he meant by the question.

"I'm . . . I'm . . . it's amateur night," she admitted softly. "Thought I might . . . it's cash money, s-so I can get my room back for the night. Not that I—I don't do this very often," she added hastily. "I've only ever—just a couple of times. I'm not a—I don't do it often."


	11. The Proposition

Logan hadn't thought she was the kind of person who would walk into a place called The Silk Stocking.

But he was far from upset to have this notion of her shattered.

This was . . . a deep, dark fantasy come true. He wouldn't have to settle for some other girl, wouldn't have to find the one that looked most like her and squint his eyes and breathe through his mouth and pretend. She wasn't some unattainable, otherworldly thing. He could have her, easy as that.

Logan couldn't help asking, "How much for a private dance?"

She glanced towards the club, back to the road, then down at her worn sneakers, avoiding his gaze. "I—I don't . . . I've never done that before. I dunno."

Logan wasn't dissuaded. "Look, how much can you make in a night here?"

She began to fidget, tugging at her sleeves, but managed a casual shrug. "I s'pose . . . 'bout seventy."

Logan looked her up and down, then glanced around the well-filled parking lot. Pretty little thing like her? Not a chance. "How much do you really make? On a night like this."

Another little shrug. Her voice wavered. "One-fifty."

Logan couldn't understand why she would be ashamed, why she would lie about making good money. After all, it meant she was attractive. Weren't women supposed to like that, feeling attractive? "I'll give ya two for a private dance."

Now she smelled even more embarrassed. But she raised her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes. "Why're you bein' so nice to me?"

He blinked, vaguely disturbed that she would think such a thing. "Darlin', this ain't nice. If I was nice, I'd give you some money, put you up in a motel or somethin'. I'm . . . I'm askin' you to strip for me."

She slung her ratty duffle over her shoulder and locked up her car. "Right. Well, I'm fixin' to do that anyways, so ya don't hafta pay me special for it." Her voice had turned hard, and it sounded all wrong on her. "Ya might as well just go on in and take a seat. I gotta get ready first. Be on in half an hour or so." She brushed past him.

He caught her arm, hating the way that made her flinch, the spike of fear in her scent. He let go. "That's not what I want," he ground out. "Not in front of those other men. I want a private dance, just for me." His eyes made their way down her body, desire flaring at the thought of— "I want you to dance just for me," he repeated.

She looked at him, blinking tears out of her eyes. "No," she whispered, "no, that's even worse. That'd make me feel even—even more like a whore."


	12. The Promise

Logan took a deep breath. Some part of him felt ashamed, and some part of him felt angry, but mostly, he just _wanted_ her, and that was enough to drown out everything else. "How much will it take?" he implored. "What can I do to convince you? I'll pay ya three. I want a private dance, darlin', just for me."

"No," she said stubbornly. "Stop it, please." Her tears began to flow faster. "You were nice to me." This in an oddly accusatory tone. "You were nice, and—and I know your name. I can't. I'm not gonna sink that low. Maybe it seems stupid to you, maybe it is stupid, but I have," she glanced at the neon sign, blushing, "standards. I'm not like this. I don't do this. I don't do this." She shook her head, as if her denying it could make it go away. "I don't do this."

Logan almost believed her. She obviously wasn't like this, if she'd rather work in that shithole restaurant with a boss who didn't bother to pay her, than dance here for three times the money.

He didn't see what was so damn bad about stripping, but it bothered her. It hurt her. That much he could tell. "You're lookin' at it all wrong, honey," he said, taking an involuntary step towards her. "If this kinda thing really upsets you so much, wouldn't it be _better_ to dance just for one man? To make even more money and only let _me_ see you? You want all those drunk guys in there pawin' at you, comin' onto you?" He bit back a growl. "That's worse."

She sniffled. "I—I guess . . . no, I mean, you're right. You're right. I just thought you . . . I just had a different image of you. It's stupid, but I kind of let myself think we . . . back at the restaurant, when you waited with me, and protected—I felt safe and—God, I'm a fucking idiot. Sorry. Nevermind. Please, forget what I just said. Sorry."

For a brief moment, he wanted to try to live up to whatever image she had built of him. Some nice regular guy, some decent guy who kept her safe without asking for anything in return. But he knew he couldn't. He was a mutant, and in a couple of days he'd be back in a cushy mansion in New York, busting skulls for a man who made the President look like a pauper, and she'd still be in this shitty little town living day to day, driving her beat-up old car to work and calling strangers "ma'am" and "sir". Going to amateur night at The Silk Stocking and crying in the parking lot and telling herself she wasn't a stripper.

But maybe . . . maybe he could try to give her part of her fantasy, just a little bit. Just for one night. That could be nice. The words began to pour from him as he breathed her in, coaxing, insistent, "I want you to feel safe with me," he said. "You're safe. Listen, I didn't mean to come on so strong . . . I just want you, wanna see you so bad, darlin'. Want you to dance for me. From the second I saw you in that restaurant, I wanted you. It's—it's not gonna be like the times you've danced before, for all those guys. It won't be like that with me. C'mon, I'll treat you good. You can be safe . . . comfortable. I'm not even from around here. You'll never have to see me again. Just one night. Just gimme one night."

She was softening under his arguments, he could tell. He took another step towards her. She bit her lip, still crying some. "Alright," she said, dull, numb. "Alright. I think we can rent a private room inside. I never did it before, but I—I think they do that."

Logan shook his head, not liking that idea. They'd be behind a curtain at best, and all the other sounds and smells of the place would filter in. "Nah. You don't even have to set foot in that place tonight, darlin'. Just come back to my hotel. That'd be nicer for you, right?"

The fear smell was back. She shifted her duffle nervously. "I'm sorry. I'm not comfortable going—"

"If I was gonna hurt you, I would've done it by now," he said pragmatically, trying not to let his frustration show. He was trying to make this better for both of them, and she wasn't making it easy. Still, he supposed he couldn't blame her for being scared. "C'mon, you know I could've done anything to you back at that restaurant, or in the parking lot, but I didn't. I'm not some creep. I won't treat you bad. You're safe. I'll take care of you."

". . . You promise?" She looked up at him, big brown eyes shining, lip jutting out in a pout.

In an instant, his frustration with her was gone. He couldn't lie; that really did it for him, the naughty mix of innocent and sexy in her features, the honeyed timbre of her voice. His blood stirred, his cock twitching awake and pushing up against the front of his jeans. He nearly rumbled in pleasure. "Oh, I promise, sweet thing. I promise."


	13. The Guilt

Logan could hardly believe the turn of events that brought him to this point. Here he was, on his way back to some fancy hotel, two bottles of bourbon sitting in the passenger seat, the headlights in his rearview mirror a constant reminder of the woman who would soon be following him up to his room.

He couldn't remember ever being excited like this, palms sweating, practically shaking with anticipation. He really, really wanted her. He was so attracted to this woman, even if he couldn't understand how or why.

He tried to push aside any residual twinges of guilt; she was just some girl, some waitress. No, not even that—a homeless stripper. Not a nice girl who had people to stay with, people who missed her when she was gone and looked out for her. Not the kind who deserved better than him, like he had originally thought. He had nothing to be guilty about. He was paying for her services fair and square, and she was a consenting . . . adult.

Not that he had asked her age.

He didn't want to ask.

He was afraid of the answer.

Logan glanced in the rearview mirror once more, just to be sure she was still there. This was going to be good, he reminded himself, pushing his worries aside, already imagining what kind of underwear she would be wearing under her jeans and blouse. Better yet, how she would look when it all came off.

He would put on some soft music, he decided, something slow and sensual. He definitely wanted to take it slow, unwilling to settle for some quickie lapdance. He wanted to enjoy her alluring scent and her delicate features and her pale, smooth skin for as long as he could.

He was paying her well enough, well enough to demand that she take it slow.

And maybe, if he drank the bourbon at just the right pace, he could hold those twinges of guilt at bay.


	14. The Hotel

"I'll just—can I just use your bathroom to get ready?" Her voice shook, and Logan could smell her nervousness, cloyingly strong. She was shaking, and it couldn't all be from the cold.

Logan dropped his keys on the nightstand and threw his jacket over the foot of the bed. "Sure, darlin'," he said, trying to keep his own voice steady. "You go on ahead and take your time."

She carried her bag in with her and shut the door, and Logan set about making things the way he wanted.

He turned off the overhead light and turned on the lamp, dimming it with a pillowcase thrown over the shade, since he figured that would make her more comfortable. He'd still be able to see everything thanks to his mutation.

And he did want to see everything. Wanted to see her pale skin, to watch her body sway with the music. He just . . . he wanted her to _want_ to dance for him. He wanted her to like it and not smell scared.

But he'd settle for this.

The radio was already set on some kind of instrumental jazz, and he figured that would be nice, so he just turned it up a little. Next, the desk chair was settled against the wall opposite the room's full-length mirror. He wanted her to dance in front of it, so he could see all of her at once. He swallowed thickly, taking a generous swig of bourbon before setting both bottles down next to his chair.

The shower came on, and his stomach started twisting into knots. He chuckled at his own nerves. _Get it together, pansy._ For God's sake, she was just a professional, a stripper, just like anybody else he'd brought back to a hotel room. There was nothing different or special about this girl, he kept telling himself. Not one damn thing.

He took another swig of bourbon.

And another.

He wasn't sure how much time passed as he slid off his shoes, then his socks, his belt and his denim shirt. He settled himself in the chair and continued to drink, pacing himself to spread out the buzz. He wished he'd bought one more bottle, but that might frighten her. He'd already been drinking most of the night, and she didn't know he was a fucked up, half-animal mutant who couldn't keep alcohol on his blood.

The shower went off. Logan half-listened as she dried her hair and curled it. Makeup compacts clicked open and shut.

He let his mind wander, let himself believe that she was the type of girl he'd first envisioned, that she was his girl, and it was his birthday or their anniversary or something. Yeah, their anniversary. She was getting ready for him, he thought, fixing her makeup and her hair just the way he liked. She knew he was waiting, eager to see her, and she was teasing him, taking her sweet time.

He nearly laughed at himself. No one would ever suspect the Wolverine to fantasize about such tame, sappy things.

He heard her rummaging around in her bag again, and wondered if it would be weird to ask—oh, he would never see her again anyway. He'd just ask, "Darlin'?"

She dropped something; he heard it clank against the tiles, followed by a rush of fear in her scent. "I'm—I'm sorry," she called. "I'm hurrying."

No, that wasn't—she was supposed to be taking her time. She wasn't supposed to be scared. He took another gulp of bourbon. "Don't rush, baby. You're fine. I just—I just wanted to ask you . . . don't wear any perfume, okay? Or, y'know, hairspray or stuff. Just don't worry about all of that stuff, alright?"

She stopped moving. "Oh. Okay," she said. "If you want, sure. Um, do you—would you prefer—I have black or kind of dark green. F-for lingerie, I mean. They're both, um, silk, with garters. Whichever you like."

The thought of her in a garter belt and stockings made him draw a shaky breath. He took another drink. "Surprise me."


	15. The Change of Heart

Logan rubbed his hand absently over the crotch of his jeans as he waited for the girl to get ready, enjoying the muted sensation against his semi-aroused flesh. He was in no hurry. He wanted this to last.

Finally, she emerged—and he nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of her.

Long, rich brown hair, longer than he'd thought, tumbled down past her shoulders in soft curls. The makeup made her look less tired, made her eyes and lips look even bigger. A short, clingy black dress revealed a figure that was a little underweight, but still much curvier than he'd realized.

She had on black gloves that came up past the elbow. He'd never seen a woman wearing gloves like that, but he found he liked it.

He really, really liked it. "You look so good," he breathed.

She forced a smile. "Thank you. Um, is this the music ya like?" she asked softly. "Want me to dance to this?"

"Yeah, baby. Yeah." Logan's eyes continued traveling down her long, toned legs encased in sheer black nylons as her body began to sway . . . and then he saw the four-inch stilettos.

Instead of his usual reaction, he felt a pang of guilt. He remembered how she had been on her feet all night, carrying trays and pitchers. He remembered how exhausted she really looked underneath all that makeup, and how he hadn't seen her eat anything in the four hours he'd spent at the restaurant. "You—you don't have to wear those, baby," he said, gesturing to the heels. "You don't have to dance in those."

She stopped moving. "Oh. Are—are you sure?"

He nodded, feeling a little bit better when she slipped off the stilettos. He downed a generous swig of bourbon.

She started to dance again, and it was good. He breathed her in, feeling himself gradually relax as she did. Her hips moved in a mesmerizing pattern, silk-clad hands traveling up the sides of her body to play with her soft, touchable hair. No hairspray. That was good. That was really good. He settled back in his chair and took another drink.

"So pretty, baby," he muttered, entranced as she let the saxophone guide her lithe body. "Dance for me. Just for me. Just how I like it, darlin'."

It was everything he wanted, the burn of bourbon in his throat, the rich saxophone, her slowly relaxing scent and the sight of her dancing just for him, the rub of denim against his sensitive flesh whenever he shifted in his chair. All his senses were thrumming. Perfect.

The music went on, unhurried, drifting up and down the notes in no particular direction. She took her time, drifted along with it for endless minutes. But then . . .

Her scent started to change, as she eased her hands down to the hem of her dress and began inching it up. She didn't pause the movement of her hips, didn't miss a beat, but she turned her face away, and he knew—he knew she was going to cry.

"Don't," he found himself saying. "Don't—you don't have to. Don't worry about that. Just keep dancing."

She nodded silently, letting the dress fall back into place. Logan made himself watch, but it wasn't as good anymore. He knew she was grateful for his words, for his generosity in letting her keep the dress on. But the scent of her unshed tears still hung in the room, heavy and thick, and part of him wanted to stop this altogether, wanted to shove the three hundred at her and say he was sorry for he didn't know what and tell her to get her stuff and go.

He sat stiff in the chair and watched, and loved it, and hated himself for loving it. When the fuck had he become the good guy?

Time passed. He had no idea how many minutes drifted by as the turmoil played itself out in his mind. "Do you feel okay, baby?" he finally asked, the question surprising him as much as it surprised her. "I mean, is this okay for you?"

"It's okay," she whispered.

"Good," he said. "I-I want it to be okay."

Something came over her features. Something better than anything he'd seen before.

Everything changed.

"Maybe you could . . . dance with me," she offered, nervous, sweet, intoxicating.


	16. The Dance

Logan blinked. His palms began to sweat as he imagined the feel of her tiny waist in his hands. No, surely she didn't mean, surely— "Dance with you?"

She shook her head. "Nevermind. I'm sorry." She started to move her hips again, running her hands over her body in a way that would have turned him on, if he couldn't smell how utterly un-aroused she was.

He finished the bottle of bourbon. "I'd like to. Dance with you. If you want to."

"It's up to you," she said, still swaying absently to the music. She gestured over herself. "This is all for you."

A soft growl came up in his throat before he could stop it. Oh. Oh hell. He knew she didn't mean that the way he wanted her to mean it, but some parts of his body were responding _very_ well to that statement.

"All for me," he repeated her words, trying to keep the growl out of his voice. "Wanna dance with you." He stood and approached her.

She started to press her back against him and settle his hands on her hips while she danced, but he turned her around, pulled her into an embrace and buried his nose in her hair, holding her as he swayed them both in time with the music. She was stiff for a few moments.

But soon, silk-clad arms inched up to encircle his neck, and her scent changed, softened, mellowed.

Logan tightened his arms around her waist, holding her body flush against his as he began to move his feet, just back and forth, doing what came naturally. He didn't really know how to dance, but this felt good, so very good. She could probably feel his erection bumping into her lower belly.

He just hoped it would distract her from the soft rumbles of pleasure rising up in his chest.

The song ended, and a new one came on, but he just kept dancing.

"This is . . . nice," she whispered sleepily, and he wondered how long it had been since she'd had a decent night's rest. "No one's ever danced with me like this."

"Just me," he replied. "Only me."

She nodded against his chest. "I . . . don't want you to pay me, Mr. Logan. I want this to be . . . don't pay me, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, not sure if he should feel guilty for talking her into this, then telling her not to strip and agreeing not to pay her. But he didn't want to give her money for this. He didn't want it to be like that.

He just wanted to hold her and pretend like she was all his and pretend like he knew how to dance. "It's just Logan, not Mr. Logan," he murmured, nuzzling deeper into her hair. "What's your name, honey? Tell me your name."

"Marie."


	17. The Angel

"Marie," Logan repeated, inhaling deeply, every exhale carrying a hint of a growl. He needed to stop that, or she was going to realize something was wrong with him. But that scent—it did things to him.

And it was only getting worse—or better—even more attractive as she truly relaxed for the first time since he'd met her. That bitter edge of fear and anxiety melted away, leaving behind only her own natural, indefinable smell, the one his instincts identified as perfect, right, sexy—meant for him. Just for him. His territorial urges were going haywire. Knuckles itching, he bit back another growl.

'Rhapsody in Blue' came on, and he continued to sway, holding her by the waist and rubbing her against his aching erection as subtly as he could. "Marie. That's . . . pretty." Something inside him was breaking. "That's . . . Oh, God, I fucked up, didn't I?"

"No, no, please, this is good. Don't stop. I'll make it better for you—" she rolled her body against him expertly.

Logan felt sick. He stilled the movement of her hips. "No, honey, it's okay. This is good. I meant before. I fucked up before. I didn't—I made you—this is all I wanted," he lied, holding her gently, not even dancing anymore. Or perhaps it wasn't a lie. This _was_ all he wanted, a connection with her, even if he'd gone about it all wrong. Unable to meet her eyes, he spoke into her hair. "This is all I really want, just to be with you, just like this. I was trying to ask you to come back to my hotel, in the parking lot at the restaurant. But I thought you'd say no." His sigh of frustration came out as a growl. "Then I saw you at the club and—"

"It's easier to ask a stripper," she said without any discernable emotion. "Then it's just a transaction. I understand."

Logan bristled at that. Mainly because she was right. He held her tighter, half-expecting her to struggle against him. But she didn't, and somewhere inside he felt a deep, primal satisfaction at her compliance, her acceptance of him. He didn't know why, but it would have hurt so much if she had rejected him, then or now.

_I was afraid,_ he thought.

"I was an asshole," he said.

"No," she said firmly, still trapped against his chest. Her hands moved over the back of his neck, gently massaging his tense muscles. "No, you weren't at all, and . . . well, the fact that ya think you're an asshole just proves even more that you're not." She laughed softly.

"Hmph."

"Logan," she said kindly, pulling back just enough to touch his face. "I'm . . . glad I'm here with you. I'm not gonna lie; I'm so _tired_, I was thinkin' about just—" her gaze dropped to the floor, "—just killin' myself tonight. Lettin' myself freeze or somethin'. Just lettin' go. I'm so glad I'm here with you, 'cause I don't think I coulda gone in there and danced in front of all those guys again. I just don't think I coulda done it."

"Marie—"

"Lemme . . . lemme finish." She continued running her hands along his cheekbones and jawline, almost reverently. "I dunno if I believe in God, but if I did, I'd think he sent you to me tonight. I'd think he sent me a guardian angel, just for one night. That's what I was thinkin' about when ya stayed with me in the restaurant. That's what I let myself believe."


	18. The Mantra

Logan didn't know what to say. No one had ever thought something that good about him. "I'm no angel," he said needlessly. "But I'm—shit, I'm really sorry, for ruining your fantasy about me. For goin' and tryin' to . . . use you the way the men at the club would've used you." He closed his eyes in pain. "Shit, that's so messed up. I shouldn't have done that."

He really, really wished he hadn't done that now. It was nothing like he thought it would be, watching her dance not because she wanted him to watch, but because she was hungry and cold and desperate.

She shrugged. "I let myself be used. No one's holdin' a gun to my head. It's my fault, not yours. You were really nice, and you were gonna pay way more than I'm worth. Don't feel bad."

He didn't think any of that was true. There may not be a gun at her head, but she'd said it herself: she didn't have a lot of options.

"Logan, I mean it," she went on. "You—you saved my life. You gave me some kind of hope. I just gotta get through this. I just gotta make it through. It's gonna be better someday. I feel like I can go back to the club now. I just gotta make a little money, get my room back and get through this." She said the words like a mantra, and nodded to herself, setting her resolve.

_Trapped,_ Logan realized. Marie was trapped. He knew that feeling, and loathed it with every fiber of his being. Logan knew those words, _Just gotta make it through._ He had told himself the same thing many times before.

He knew all too well how hopeless it could feel to be stuck in a life not worth living, to have a choice only between something bad and something worse. That had been his life, before Charles Xavier stepped in and freed him, then gave him a leg up, an opportunity he could never have gotten by himself.

Logan found that he wanted to give that to Marie. An option, another choice . . . a choice to be with him. But he didn't know how to go about offering such a thing, much less getting her to accept it. "I said you wouldn't have to go into that place tonight," he reminded her.

She pulled away a little more. "It's okay. I, um, really need the money. Dunno when my boss is gonna pay me. And before you say anything, I'm not takin' any charity from you. You've helped me enough."

"Let me provide for you," Logan said on a whim. He could do that. Even if she didn't want to be with him. Even if it just meant sending money from New York. She had to at least let him do that. "I said I'd take care of you, darlin'. I promised."

She didn't look persuaded in the least.

He tried a different route. "You wanna make a liar out of me? Let me take care of you. I never want you to sell your body again. Never again. Let me keep my promise."

"You're pretty drunk, aren't ya?" she asked, not unkindly.

No. He was dead sober, and he meant what he said. Never again. "I'm not drunk. And I don't make promises unless I intend to keep them. Stay here tonight. Get some sleep. And in the morning, I'm takin' you out for breakfast and we're gonna figure all this shit out. I'm no guardian angel, Marie. A guard dog, if anything." He smirked, knowing she wouldn't get the joke. "But I'm . . . really attracted to you, darlin'. Want you _so_ bad. Wanna take care of you, whatever you need."

He really wanted to make her feel cared for, wanted to do what he could for her. This nice little southern girl, this waitress, this stripper who lived out of her car—whoever she was, he felt like she was his somehow. Like she belonged to him. _Mine. Just for me._ That's what his instincts said. And his instincts had never lied before.


	19. The Gift

Marie looked him over, her expression shielded and not very hopeful. "Okay, Logan," she appeased him. "We'll talk about it in the mornin', when you're more yourself." She ran her hands tenderly over his face again. "But if I'm stayin' here tonight, there's somethin' I wanna do for ya. Not—not as payment, not as gratitude or anything like that." She bit her lip. "Um, just—just 'cause I like you, and I want to."

"Okay," Logan said dumbly, rather stuck on the 'I like you' part of that statement. "Okay. W-what do you wanna do?"

She looked up at him. "I'm so glad you're drunk off your ass, sugar, 'cause I'd never have the guts to say this otherwise. But . . . I've never danced for someone I really liked, someone I was attracted to. I think—I think I'd like to try that. To feel like I'm in control, and I'm doin' it . . . not just for you, but because _I_ want to. D'ya know what I mean? Would ya be okay with that?"

Logan tried not to think solely with the head between his legs. She didn't smell afraid, but, "Only if you want, Marie," he said unsteadily, imagining all manner of things. Was she going to strip over the course of this dance? Would that clingy little dress be coming off, and maybe more?

No, no, maybe she meant just what she said. Just a dance. He shouldn't get his hopes up. That would only lead to embarrassing things.

Like growling. Panting. Possibly dry-humping her. His animal side had a way of embarrassing the hell out of him at times like this.

He needed to be calm and—fuck, she smelled good. His arms tightened around her when he caught that scent. She was getting aroused. He was making her aroused. He needed to keep doing whatever he was doing to make her smell like that. "Only if you want," he repeated. "J-just whatever feels good to you, baby. I'm not tryin' to push you, not at all."

"I know, Logan. But thanks for sayin' that." She hugged him gratefully and pressed her body into his.

That made him want to give her something. Something he had never given up before: "I mean it. You're in control tonight."

Her arousal spiked. She walked him backwards and pushed him down in the chair.

Oh, yes, that was definitely the right thing to say.


	20. The Mirror

"Watch, Logan," Marie said as she came to stand behind his chair, pointing towards the mirror. She needn't have told him to do that. He was already riveted.

She ran her fingers through his hair, drawing a groan, massaging down his neck, his shoulders, and positioning his arms at his sides. Taking the hint, he gripped the seat of the chair, determined to keep his hands to himself unless she asked otherwise. She was in control tonight. He needed to remember that.

She began to sway her hips sensually, running her hands over his chest, inching lower down his stomach with each pass. He was so far past needing release, his muscles twitched under every caress. Catching his eyes in the mirror, she bent forward to whisper in his ear. "How 'bout I get rid of some of these clothes, huh, sugar?"

_Hell yes._ Logan swallowed audibly, eyes never leaving hers as he nodded.

'Rhapsody in Blue' came to a close, and a smooth jazz tune came on as she reached down to the hem of his wifebeater and began tugging it up.

_Oh. Oh. _My _clothes? That little tease!_ Still, he raised his arms obediently to let her pull the shirt off, then placed them back at his sides, gripping the seat.

Gloved hands trailed over his bare torso, dipping down almost to the waistband of his jeans before retreating. Over and over again. It was maddening, and this time he really growled. There was no mistaking that sound for anything else. _Fuck!_ he thought, panicking.

But the smell of her arousal only grew. "You're sexy," she said softly, fisting one hand in his hair and turning his head towards her as she stepped around to the side of the chair. She rolled her torso into him, lush breasts tantalizingly close to his face. "Ya don't hafta pay someone to dance for you, Logan. A man like you could have his pick of women."

He didn't really think that was true, but he was glad she thought so. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him. But ever since his years in the lab, being experimented on, he'd never been able to attract a woman except ones who were already looking for a quick fuck or a one night stand.

They must've messed him up somehow, those experiments. It was like . . . people knew he was damaged goods. Barely a man. He shook that thought away, before it could make him angry.

It didn't matter tonight. Marie was here dancing just because she wanted to, and she thought he was sexy. Even after he growled at her like some stupid animal, not to mention all his other idiotic behavior since the moment he'd met her. She wasn't scared of him anymore, and he was even turning her on somehow. That made him feel good.

Then her foot came to rest on the chair right between his legs, millimeters from the bulge in his pants, and that made him feel _really_ good.


	21. The Green

Marie screwed the top off the second bottle of bourbon and took a sip before passing it to him. Then she stepped away and continued to dance, growing bolder as she raised her arms and parted her lips seductively, never faltering in her movements, putting her very worthy assets on perfect display for him.

This was better than before, so much better. Logan drank deeply, wondering how to go about asking if she'd be okay with him jacking off to the sight of her. Because he was really very painfully hard at this point, and he didn't know how much longer he could just keep sitting there doing nothing about it.

She turned her back to him, bent over to touch the floor, and slowly rolled her body back up, peeking over her shoulder to smile at him.

Logan whimpered. This girl had to make more than one-fifty a night. That move alone could've made a lesser man cry.

He set the bottle down when she finally danced towards him again. She stayed just out of arm's reach, running her hands over her stomach as she swayed, inching her dress up just until he got a flash of bare thigh, a hint of a garter strap, then letting it fall back into place.

Logan bit his lip, starting to writhe in the chair a bit. He finally gave in and adjusted himself in his jeans. "Grrrrghhh, ahhhh . . ." By force of will, he pulled his hand away before 'adjusting' could turn into 'fondling'.

"Gettin' bothered?" Marie asked in surprise, toying with the thin straps of her dress. "I haven't even got anything off yet."

"Gettin' me off," he blurted. "I mean, can I—I'll get myself off—if you don't mind me—oh, fuck, forget I said that." He felt his ears growing hot. He was blushing, sweet-Mary-mother-of-fuck, he was blushing, and he'd never been this nervous or excited before. He couldn't believe he'd just asked her to let him touch himself while she danced.

But she wasn't looking at him with disgust or pity. Far from it. Most of her shyness had faded when she spoke. "Well, I was kinda hopin' you'd let me . . ." she began slipping the straps of her dress down her arms, ". . . get you off." The dress fell to the floor, and she stepped out of it, kicking it aside.

Logan's mouth went dry. Green. She'd gone with the green. Green silk. Green bra. Green garter belt. Green thong. Green was his new favorite color. He had a feeling he'd never see that shade of it again without getting an instant hard-on. "Best surprise ever," he breathed, refusing to blink as his eyes roamed every last inch of her.

She smiled, the biggest, most genuine smile he'd seen on her. "I'm glad you like it."

"Love it," he corrected, certain the sturdy wood chair would be left with indents, he was gripping it so hard. "God, you're so fuckin' sexy. This can't be real. Shit this good doesn't happen to me."

Her smile widened even further. "That's exactly how you made me feel about you, sugar. I'm gonna make you feel real good tonight. That's my promise to you."


	22. The Change of Rules

_If this is a dream, let me sleep for the next hundred years,_ Logan thought as Marie pushed his knees apart, knelt between his legs, and ran her fingernails up his thighs.

She danced her way up his body, breathing hotly against his skin. Little puffs of air ghosted up his neck, her lips so close it almost felt like she was touching him.

"Oh, Marie, please," he groaned, throwing his head back and gripping the chair for dear life. "If you want," he forced himself to add through gritted teeth. "I don't want you to feel like have to—"

She stood and stopped him with a finger to his lips. "It's okay. I'm in control, remember?"

He smirked, looking up into her eyes as he kissed her finger. "Yes, ma'am," he drawled.

She laughed, replacing her finger with her lips, kissing him sweetly as she climbed into his lap.

His tongue darted out to lick his lips when she pulled away. "You taste even better than you smell," he mumbled, utterly drunk on her.

"Um, thanks."

It was a pretty weird compliment, he supposed, especially for someone who didn't understand his . . . unusual senses. But he didn't really have time to be self-conscious about it, as she wove her fingers into his hair, settled into his lap, and proceeded to ride him through his jeans.

This was definitely a dream. Had to be.

She settled more of her weight on him, and Logan thrust up against her involuntarily. "Oh, fuck, baby," he whispered incoherently as waves of pleasure rolled through him. "You move those hips so good. Love the way you dance for me. Arrrghh, feels so good."

"I'm glad it's good for you, Logan," she said, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "So glad I can please you."

"Consider me pleased," he groaned. "Happiest man alive. Jesus."

She brought his hands up and placed them on her hips, then drew her tongue over the shell of his ear—and suddenly, it didn't feel like just a lap dance anymore.

It felt like sex, and he wanted to make it good for her. He needed to please her too. He pushed her up off him, urging her to turn around and sit back in his lap. She did, resting her head back on his shoulder.

She started to roll her body again, grinding her hips in circles. "This what you want, sugar?"

He turned his head to the side and captured her lips in a kiss. "Perfect . . . can I touch you, baby?" he asked, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist as his other hand drew circles up her inner thigh. "Would that be okay?"

Her eyes were heavy-lidded. "No touching in a lap dance, Mr. Logan," she breathed.

He nuzzled her nose with his and kissed her again. "I'm changin' the rules," he growled, bringing his fingers up to rub her lightly through the silk.

She moaned. "I th-thought I was . . . ahhh . . . in control, ohhhh . . ."

Logan brought his other hand up to cup her breast. He mumbled into her mouth, "Of course, honey. Just tell me to stop, and I will."

"N-not a chance. Oh, yes, ohh, Logan . . ."

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A/N: **Skye** – thanks for the review! **Lupinxtonks** – Yeah, the chapters are pretty short so I'll try to always post several at once :). **lilmizz3vil** – Can I give you bonus points for reviewing here and at WRFA? You rock. **Clever Lass** – Most of the story does kind of have that tone to it, and I'm really glad you've liked it so far :). Of course, there are a few all-out smut scenes, but I really tried to keep understated except for those, haha! **Austin B** – Thanks. I'm glad the characters felt real to you. **CindersAndRain** – Thank you for the cheer :), it's always appreciated when someone takes the time to leave a review. Hope you enjoy the rest of the story, too!


	23. The Ride

Marie's small gloved hands settled over his, and he let her steer things, fighting the urge to go faster, rougher, to slip his fingers beneath her silky lingerie and touch her the way he really needed to.

Logan had the fleeting thought that this was some sort of penance; sweet, sweet torture.

"Ohhh . . ." Her eyes fluttered closed as she gave herself over to the sensations, humming and sighing, melting against him as he continued to kiss and nip at her mouth. She gave no resistance when he gently parted her lips to slip his tongue inside.

Logan fought to keep himself lucid, drowning as he was in the scent and taste of her. His hips had taken up the slow rhythm she set, and he ground up into her backside with every pass of his fingers, the stimulation just enough to keep him on edge but not quite enough to get him to the release he needed.

But then, this wasn't about him.

And if he had to hazard a guess, he would say this wasn't really even about sex—for Marie, anyway. Her hands tightened over his as she guided his every move. This was all about taking back control, using her body for her own pleasure after being pressured into selling it for the pleasure of others. The release she needed was more than physical. Logan was simply along for the ride.

But he didn't mind being used, just this once. It was the least he could give her, after what he'd done to her earlier.

"Mmm . . . right there, ohhhh, so good . . ."

And frankly, having a sexy woman writhing in his lap under any circumstances was no cross to bear. He kissed along her cheekbones, her jawline and neck, every part of her he could reach. "Yeah, baby, show me. Like that?"

She whimpered. "Yes, yes, yesyesyes . . ."

Oh, if only she would let him touch her the way he wanted, he could make this even better for her. He just knew it.

"Mmmm . . . nice . . ."

Logan could make this so much better than 'nice.'

He would have to touch her again, soon, that much he knew. It would be different from this, all about showing her the pleasure he could give her, making her his. But tonight, this was what Marie needed. Not a heart-stopping orgasm, but the feeling of power that came from Logan letting her have control over it all.

In a way, it was even more intimate than sex, at least the one-night-stands he usually indulged in.

Her body began to tremble. "Oh, Logan," she whispered shakily, arching into their joined hands.

He took a calming breath, gently urging her to increase the pace and pressure.

She didn't need much convincing.

Logan pressed his lips to her ear, whispering, "That's a good girl. C'mon, say my name again, baby. Say my name when you come." He knew it wasn't really fair to ask, but he needed this one thing. He needed her to say it, to be there with him, not off in her own little fantasy.

Her hands tightened over his, her sharp little nails biting into his flesh exquisitely through her gloves. "L-llllloooogaan!" Her body spasmed, back arching as she released his hands and reached down to grip his thighs convulsively.

Logan pulled her against him tightly, holding her down and stroking her as she rode it out. "Yeah, darlin', oh, that's beautiful." The look on her face, eyes closed, mouth parted in a silent cry—he knew he would have to make her look like that again.

Soon. Very soon.

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A/N: **Suoidkun**: Thanks for the review! I'm glad the story came across as real to you. That was definitely the feeling I was going for when I wrote it :). **The Doctor Rose**: Thanks for reviewing! And being a Doctor/Rose fan. Aren't they like, the best OTP ever? **Rogan's fan**: Thank you for reading and reviewing! **Skye**: You're welcome. I'm not posting quite as many this time though, since I've been so busy :( But I'll try to update more quickly! **Lazydreamer**: Your wish, my command. Thanks for the review! **Lilmizz3vil**: You made me laugh out loud. Oh yeah, poor innocent Logan, hah. **Ryromaniac**: Well thanks for reading, here and at WRFA! I really appreciate you taking the time to leave such a kind review. **Carrie**: Thank you so much. It was awesome to log on and see all your reviews. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. **Libfulknot**: That's going to be addressed in the next update, don't worry! Let's just say things are going to get a bit intense for Logan and Marie.


	24. The Look

Marie kissed him passionately, whimpering into his mouth.

Logan eased back and rubbed his palm up and down her stomach, soothing her still-convulsing muscles. "You liked that, huh?"

"Yeah," she whispered, melting against him. This boneless, sated Marie was definitely a sight he wanted to become familiar with.

_Gotta make you look like that all the time,_ he thought with a growl, _all hot and trembly and satisfied. Definitely need to keep you. Make you look like that. Every night._

Suddenly, Marie seemed to remember herself. She sat up, the sweetness fading from her features as she became the seductive, dancing vixen from before. She met his eyes and gave him a slow, lascivious smile.

Logan narrowed his eyes in mock-suspicion, pulling her towards him so he could nip her bottom lip. "What in the world are you thinkin' about? That's the naughtiest look I've ever seen, baby." And it was. His aching erection made its opinion of that look well-known.

She turned in his lap. "I made you a promise, remember?" she asked, kissing her way down his chest as she slid off him to kneel between his legs.

He swallowed. "I remember that. I remember that real well."

"Then you remember that before you got me all distracted, Mr. Logan, I promised—" she began unbuttoning his jeans "—to make you feel good tonight."

Logan was fixated by the sight of black silk covered fingers opening up his pants, freeing his erection. He had a feeling he was developing some sort of glove fetish. "Uhuh."

"Really good. I promised."

Logan gulped again. "Yeah. You promised. Yeah, please, darlin'. Yeah." Whatever the hell she was about to do, he was certain his response would be _Yeah_. He had the passing thought that maybe he shouldn't hold her to her promise. But there was no doubt that she was still taking control. She'd never had as much power over him as she did right now, down there on her knees, pressing a kiss to the tip of his— "Oh, fuck!"

Logan brought his hands back to their familiar home on the seat of the chair, afraid that if he let himself touch her head he wouldn't be able to keep from forcing her down on him.

Marie held his hips down, for which Logan was thankful, because he desperately wanted to thrust into her mouth. His body had been denied for too long, and he was damn near ready to explode. He was sure there were a dozen worries and concerns that would creep back into his thoughts with the morning light, but for now, the entire world was reduced to one little pink tongue and a pair of pouty lips—lips that without warning engulfed him and began sliding up and down his aching length.

"Fuckin' hell," he groaned, alternately throwing his head back and closing his eyes, and staring down at her unblinkingly. That was the most perfect sight he'd ever seen.


	25. The Stars

"Deeper," he urged, barely aware of what he was saying. "Just . . . urrggghhh . . . little more . . . please baby, take it all. I can't, I can't, I can't . . ." He couldn't what—he had no idea. He couldn't hold back. He couldn't let go. He couldn't stand it anymore, this unique mix of pleasure and pain as he struggled frantically towards his climax, yet fought against _taking_ her in the way his instincts demanded.

She rubbed her hands up and down his trembling thighs, over his abdomen, soothing him as he struggled to hold still for her.

"Agghhh, oh God, Marie . . ." He was whimpering, bucking his hips just a little to urge her to speed up. That was okay, right? Just a little? It had to be okay, because pleasure was rocketing up and down every nerve in his body now, and this was much more than okay. It was good, perfect, absolute bliss.

He didn't think it could get any better—until it somehow did. Marie rubbed his stomach one more time, then took his entire length and swallowed around him. He saw stars.

And then he was coming. "Rrrrrgghhh! M'rie! Rrrrrggghhh! Ahhhh! Oh God, GRRRRRRGGGHHH!" It went on and on. He couldn't remember it ever lasting this long, as he growled and spilled himself into her over and over again.

When the last shudder went through him, he collapsed in the chair, utterly spent. _Holy shit._ He'd never taken such a passive role in sex before, yet he was exhausted.

Marie slowly eased off him, biting her lip with a smile. "You liked that, huh?" she echoed his words from earlier.

"C'mere," he grunted, trying to catch his breath.

She crawled on top of him again, rubbing his chest in slow circles. He pressed a kiss to her lips, growling in satisfaction as he tasted himself on her, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him and breathing her in. It was heaven.

"S'go to bed," Logan mumbled when he had finally regained the strength to scoop her up in his arms and stand.


	26. The Compliment

Logan's jeans hung off his hips, but he didn't particularly care as he made the few steps to the king-size bed and laid Marie out, allowing his palm to trail the length of her body before he pulled away.

"S-so I'm staying?" she asked softly, almost hopefully, and her voice seemed to bring every event of the night crashing down on him. All that confidence she had displayed moments ago somehow vanished just as abruptly as it appeared.

Could she really think he was just going to get what he wanted from her and then kick her out? Jesus. He must have come off as even more of an asshole than he'd thought.

His mouth opened and closed a few times before he could even manage to speak. "Of course. God, Marie, of course. I meant what I said, baby, every word. I'll take care of you. You know that, right?"

"Um . . ."

Logan felt his stomach drop as a sickening feeling settled over him. "Shit. Oh my God. Marie, tell me you didn't just do that 'cause you were scared I'd kick you out."

"No." She met his eyes. "No, Logan, I did that because I wanted to."

She was telling the truth. He sighed in relief. "Good. I'm gonna take care of you, so you don't have to doubt that for one second, okay? That doesn't have anything to do with sex or you givin' me somethin' in return or, or anything like that. That's just . . . it's just there for you, understand?"

She crossed her arms over her body, fidgeting a little on the crisp white comforter. "I think you should sleep a little, take some time to sober up, and—"

He growled. "I'm not drunk!" Of course she wouldn't believe him, though. She'd seen him down enough liquor in the past two hours to put most men under the table—or maybe in the bathroom puking their guts out.

Marie flinched a little at his tone, sitting up in bed. "Okay," she said shakily. "You're not drunk. I believe you. I'm sorry."

Logan sat heavily on the edge of the bed, disappointed by the tinge of fear creeping back into her scent. The thought crossed his mind, not for the first time, that somebody must have hit her, must have abused her to make her so fearful. Whoever the bastard was, he wasn't long for this world if Logan had anything to say about it.

But if someone could train her to be so meek, so scared, then surely he could train her to be the opposite. He rested his hand on her leg, rubbing soothingly when she flinched. "No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Marie. Didn't mean to yell at you, honey." He trailed his fingers up to the edge of her thigh-high and slowly unclasped her garter straps.

Marie's heartbeats began to even out a little. "S'okay."

Logan unhurriedly rolled her stocking down, kissing his way along her skin as he exposed it. He stopped at her knee. "You've got the most beautiful skin, baby. Like porcelain. I love it."

Marie looked away, her arms still folded over her stomach. "Thanks. Thanks for sayin' that." Her voice grew a little thick. "That's really nice."

She had cute feet. Little, with red toenails. He gave her a quick foot rub, then took hold of her other leg, tugging her towards him so he could repeat the process. He'd never been much for fancy lingerie before, but this he could definitely get used to. "Just want you to know, you don't have to be scared. Even if I yell sometimes. I'd never lay hand on you in anger. Never."

She hummed as his lips brushed her inner thigh. "You may not think so, Logan, but you really are a nice person. A really, really good person."

He simply shrugged. If she was so dead-set on thinking that about him, he supposed he couldn't stop her. He pulled off her stocking and planted one final kiss on her lower belly, just over the garter belt."C'mon. You sleep now. I can sm—see how exhausted you are, and I'm not far behind ya." Logan grinned wolfishly at the memory of Marie's lips wrapped around him. He felt a crude masculine pride at the intensity of his orgasm, but also at his restraint and how careful he had been with her.

He pulled back the covers and they climbed underneath. _I did good,_ Logan thought as he curled himself around her protectively, breathing in her sleepy, sated scent. _I might've fucked up a little bit, but she's with me now, and I'm gonna take care of her, and I did good._ And finally, giving into his body's demands, he drifted to sleep.

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A/N: Next chapter, we switch to Marie's point of view and things are about to get pretty intense. I hope you enjoyed, and please tell me what you think of the story in a review. Thanks for reading!


	27. The Secret

Marie indulged herself in Logan's warm embrace until it became too dangerous. She was exhausted, and her eyelids kept drooping. She forced herself to leave the warmth of his body, but had hardly made it to the other side of the bed before his hand clamped down on her arm.

He tugged her close, wrapping her up in his arms and legs and urging her to be still. "Sleep, Marie," he growled.

There was something strange about that sound. About his whole appearance and bearing. It wasn't bad, just strange.

Marie thought of his unusual-looking friends, hoping for the hundredth time that they were in town for the mutant affairs convention. She strongly suspected they were, but she didn't want to say anything about it, just in case.

After all, revealing that she was a mutant had never brought her anything but trouble.

"Where y'goin?" Logan grumbled in annoyance when she tried once more to wriggle out of his arms.

Marie bit her lip. "Um, just—just hafta use the bathroom."

"You thinkin' about sneakin' out on me?"

She had been, a little. But he genuinely seemed to want her to stay. And it wasn't as if she had anywhere to go. "Not—not really. No."

He grunted, kissing her neck and running his hands over her a few times before he finally released her. "Hurry back."

Marie took a tired breath and rose from the bed, crossing the room. She closed herself in the bathroom, debating what to do. She wanted to stay so badly, but she'd never fallen asleep with anyone before. She didn't think she could forgive herself if her control slipped and she hurt Logan.

He had called her skin beautiful. If only he knew.

It was the part of her body she hated most, the reason she left home, the reason she never finished high school, the reason she was all alone in the world, living an existence that she had begun to doubt was even worth it. She hadn't been exaggerating when she said she had thought of killing herself.

Was this some kind of sign? Had the powers-that-be finally taken some pity on her and sent something this good into her life?

Marie pushed the stupid hope aside. She didn't believe in those kinds of things, not anymore. Some higher power, some greater plan—yeah, right. People always threw out phrases like 'meant to be' and 'fate'.

Frankly, she just hoped those things weren't real. Because if they were, what kind of person did that make her, that this was the fate she deserved? She was homeless again. She had worked so hard to get that pay-by-the-week motel room, had been so proud of herself. Four walls and a ceiling, a real bed to sleep on and a real shower, and now it was gone. The best thing in her life was gone and just like that, she was living out of her car again. No ID, no connections, no prospects for the future. Not even a landlord to report her missing if she disappeared. No one to give a damn whether she lived or died.

Except . . . maybe Logan. He cared about her. She had no idea why. But he did, she could feel it.

_Oh, shut up. Quit lying to yourself. You're invisible. You're nothing. You're nobody. You don't even deserve to live._

She couldn't tell whose voice that was anymore, as the people she had accidentally touched over the years faded and blended into her. The last person she touched before gaining control was a stripper named Tina. The woman had been so coked out when she grabbed Marie outside of her motel room, it had been a struggle to pry her loose even after the painful pull began.

Marie felt a little guilty, and a lot ashamed, the first time she harnessed Tina's skills for money. But those skills had helped her tonight. Seeing the effect she had on Logan, the look of sheer awe he gave her as she pleasured him, was the first taste of happiness she'd known in a long time. She supposed it was all worth it, to be able to give him that. For the first time, she had enjoyed dancing for someone, taken pride rather than shame in her confidence and ability to please a man.

Well, Tina's confidence and ability. But Logan didn't need to know that.


	28. The Bright Spot

Marie woke with a start, going stiff as a board until she felt the steady rise and fall of Logan's chest against her back. _He's okay. He's okay._

She rubbed a hand over her face blearily. She was extremely hungry. She hadn't slept very long, and certainly not very well. Even though she had donned thermals, socks and gloves, her anxiety over her exposed face and neck didn't make for a peaceful night's rest.

Still, she wouldn't have traded it for anything in the world.

Logan grumbled a little in his sleep, tightening his arms around her as if she were something valuable, something worth holding onto.

There was something so primally satisfying about the way he wrapped his whole body around hers, warming and protecting her. The thought flitted across her mind that if only she weren't such a freak, she could have things like this. She could feel wanted, just like this. She tried to cherish every second, imprint every moment in her memory until he woke up.

Because then it would all be over.

She debated trying to sneak out again. Marie didn't know if she could bear the look in Logan's eyes once he woke up and realized what he had done, the things he had said to her last night.

She wasn't sure how much he would even remember given the amount of alcohol he consumed, but she just knew he would be horrified to recall the things he had promised to some girl he picked up from a strip club.

And she didn't want to make it any worse for him, didn't want to make him feel guilty or somehow obligated to her. He didn't deserve that. He was a good man, he really was. He hadn't even been able to go through with all of the things he probably wanted to do with her. Marie had caught enough glimpses of Tina's memories to know how men treated strippers they brought back to their hotels.

But something about Logan was different. She could feel it, from the moment he offered to wait with her in the restaurant. He was a little bit damaged, a little bit broken, just like her. Yet there was something so good deep down inside him that Marie just couldn't help but want to get close to it, to feel it and take it in, a little bright spot in her otherwise dark life.

He had given her that. The things she had offered him in return, simple words of thanks and a little physical pleasure, seemed so cheap in comparison. But that was all she had to give. Even if she never saw him again, she hoped it meant something to him, hoped she had moved him somehow, the way he moved her.


	29. The Morning After

"Hmmm, M'rie." Logan stretched languidly against her back. "How long y'been up?" he mumbled, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply.

_He said my name,_ Marie thought with no small amount of surprise. This was already going better than she had allowed herself to imagine. She tamped down that thought immediately. This was already going to hurt; no use making it worse by getting her hopes up. "Um, not long. Good mornin'."

"Sure is." His hands roamed her torso as he lazily pressed his morning wood into her backside, practically purring.

Marie wondered if he was expecting a repeat of last night's performance, or if he wanted to go even farther with her. That would make sense. But while she may have the memories of a very experienced woman, she was still physically a virgin. She wasn't sure if she was ready to give up that last piece of innocence, not yet. So she began to grow nervous when one of his hands tightened around her waist while the other slipped between her legs.

It was almost as if he sensed it, somehow, because he immediately eased off and went back to caressing her stomach and breasts. He whispered in her ear, "Nothin' to be scared of, darlin'. Nothin' to be scared of with me."

Marie pulled out of his arms as gently as she could and reached over to the nightstand for the ibuprofen and glass of water she had set out last night. She took a deep breath, steeling herself to turn around and face him.

She was struck by the sight of him, from his wild dark hair to his wilder hazel eyes, his stubble-roughened cheeks, his heavily muscled torso disappearing under the sheets. He wasn't traditionally handsome, but there was something rugged and strong and utterly masculine about him.

Marie was taken aback by the intense jolt of arousal that shot through her. "H-here ya go," she choked out, offering the pills and water to him a bit shakily. "Can't imagine how bad your head must be poundin'. I thought for sure you'd be sick in the night."

He tilted his head and looked at her oddly for a moment, then took the pills with a gruff nod and downed them. "Yeah, I'm so hung over. Shit, my head. Thanks."

"Welcome," she mumbled, trying not to stare at the way his adam's apple bobbed as he finished the cup of water. She ran a hand through her hair, knowing it must look a mess. She was fairly sure she was blushing, too. She'd better just get this over with. "Well, thanks again for last night. I'll just—"

He rolled on top of her and crashed his lips over hers, hard. Marie yelped in surprise, and Logan used the opportunity to delve into her mouth, grabbing her by the neck to hold her still while he groaned and licked and kissed the living daylights out of her. By the time he pulled away, they were both red-faced and panting.

"Oh," Marie said, because she didn't know what the hell else to say.

He cupped her cheek and kissed her once more, softly this time. "Sorry. Too rough? I just had to do that, baby. Been waitin' to ever since I gave you control last night," he said with a half-teasing smile. He rubbed his thumb, perhaps a little regretfully, over her bruised bottom lip.

Her entire face flamed with a blush. "I'm surprised ya remember anything from last night."

At that, Logan fixed his gaze on her forcefully enough to make her squirm and look down. He pressed his forehead to hers. "Every moment. So glad I found you, Marie. If you'll just stop tryin' to run out on me," he growled softly and bit her, "I promise I'll take good care of you. Believe me yet?"


	30. The Intruder

If Logan had seemed a bit animalistic last night, that was nothing compared to this morning. His eyes even appeared golden when he stared at her for a brief moment before bending down to fix his mouth at her neck.

Marie was still reeling from the whispered promises he had repeated until she finally gave in, accepting that his offers weren't the product of his intoxication, but just his general insanity.

Insane, but unbelievably attractive and kind. So who was she to judge?

She accepted the bite to her neck with a small hiss. Still, Marie couldn't help but put a staying hand over his when he began toying with the waistband of her pajamas. "I'm sorry—"

"Shh. S'okay." He tugged out of her grip and moved his hand away to caress her elsewhere, seemingly unperturbed.

Marie felt a little shaky. This wasn't like last night, when she was calling all the shots. It felt good, the way he caressed her and pressed his hips down on hers, but she didn't know where exactly this was all going to end up, and that made her nervous. "Logan, I'm—"

He breathed heavily into her ear. "Don't be scared. Gonna take you gentle, honey. I'm sorry I kissed you so hard. Won't rough you up anymore. I just needed you to _know_ how much—"

She started to panic a little. "Logan, I've never—I'm not ready—I'm not ready."

He pulled up to look at her, wide-eyed. "Baby? You've never—?"

A knock sounded on the door. "Logan, are you up?" a male voice called. "Breakfast lecture starts in twenty minutes. We need to leave pronto!"

He groaned, burying his face in Marie's hair for a moment before yelling at the door. "Go away, Scott! Why d'you think I rented my own car?"

"But you're going to be late!"

At that, Logan grumbled wordlessly and jumped up from the bed, darting an apologetic look back at Marie as he stalked across the room in his sleep-wrinkled jeans. He opened the door a crack. He spoke in a low hiss, but Marie still caught his words: "Do I fuckin' come poundin' on your door when you and Jeannie are busy? No. Get the fuck outta here."

"Wha—Who do you have in there?" The door was shoved open, and Marie saw Logan's friend from the restaurant, the one who wore the strange sunglasses. She gasped and instinctively yanked the covers up around her even though she was fully clothed.

At that, Logan snarled viciously and leapt, slamming the man into the opposite wall by the throat. The man—Scott?—let out a horrible choked sound.

Marie gasped again, frozen in place with pure shock.

Logan pulled his hand away from Scott's throat, his entire body shaking with rage, and rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck several times. His voice sounded like a growl, "God_damn_it, Cyke! Tryin' to get yourself killed? Get the hell outta my sight!" Logan groaned in pain and rubbed his knuckles against his thighs as if he had just punched something.

"S-sorry," Scott wheezed, rubbing his throat as he backed away and hurried down the hall.

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Author's Notes: Happy Thanksgiving! I'm thankful for all the people who have read, favorited, and reviewed this story =D. You guys rock! **Ryromaniac**: Yeah, Logan is definitely following his instincts, whether he means to or not! **Thump**: Hopefully the latest chapters answered your question :). **Lupinxtonks**: Of course. I will never write a Rogan fic that doesn't end with the two of them together, one way or another! Too many sad endings in real life; no reason to make stories with them =P. **Sofiya**: Thank you so much for the review. I'm so glad you like my stories. I wanna get this one all posted, but then I'll be finishing up _Feral_ too. **Jinx**: Thanks! Can't say I've ever gotten one, but I tried to make it as realistic as possible LOL. **Chachi**: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing. I'm glad you're enjoying the story! **Wishyouknew**: Oh yeah. Growly possessive Logan is my favorite too. On that note, hope you like the latest chapter ;).


	31. The Fear

Logan stepped back into the room and swung the door shut behind him, lips still parted in a scowl as he rubbed his knuckles.

Marie continued to hold the covers protectively over herself, trying to calm her racing heart. She did the only thing she knew to do when faced with an angry man: she curled her knees up to her chest and backed up into the headboard, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

_I'm not here. Don't look at me. I'm nothing. I'm nobody. Don't look at me,_ she begged.

But it was useless. His eyes swung around to meet hers, and she flinched away, closing her eyes tightly and waiting for the blow to come—

"Honey? You're shiverin'." His voice was as calm and gentle as she'd ever heard it.

Marie opened her eyes to look at him as he crossed the room in a few quick strides. She tried to be compliant when he pulled her into his arms, but her body remained rigid with fear.

_Bitch! Try that again and see what happens—I'll fuckin' kill you!_

_Why? What did I do?_ Marie wondered frantically, before she realized that the voice was only in her mind. Just a memory.

Some other voice said boredly, _Memories can't hurt you, stupid._

Oh, but they could. She let out a shaky breath. She needed to calm down. Logan was going to think she was nuts or something.

But Logan was—smelling her? He nosed through her hair, inhaling deeply. "It's alright, Marie." He folded her up tightly in his embrace. "I wouldn't let him get you. You saw. You saw. Won't let him scare you again, baby."

Confused by Logan's words, she tried to find her voice. "I . . . I don't think he was trying to . . ."

Logan tightened his arms around her even more. His voice came out strained. "I know. Shit. I know. I—I didn't mean to scare you, baby. I didn't mean to. Just—gimme a chance to explain. You have to know I won't hurt you, even . . . when I'm like that. I'm sorry. Please quit shiverin'. That just breaks my heart right there, darlin'."

Marie felt her own eyes nearly tear up at the raw pain in his voice. Without any conscious thought, she found herself bringing his hand to her lips and kissing his knuckles tenderly. They didn't appear to be hurt, but she knew as well as anyone that wounds could linger in the mind long after they disappeared from the body. Something had made him angry enough to throttle that other man just for looking at her, and somehow it had to do with the pain in his fists, and he just had to be some sort of mutant, didn't he? That much she could tell.

"Rrrrrrgh," Logan sighed, nuzzling deeper into her hair.

His sigh gradually turned into an even more animalistic rumble, but she just kept going, kissing each of his knuckles and massaging his hands. Whatever he was going to explain, it could wait. Right now he needed this. She could give him this.

"You have nice hands." They were big, she noticed, but not clumsy or rough. Though she knew her fear was as irrational as his anger, her own silk-gloved fingers still trembled against his.

It didn't help that she would have to go see the true object of her fears later today. She curled herself even further into Logan's body, if it was at all possible, and tried her best not to think about that.


	32. The Breakfast

She'd never been in a hotel like this. The things in the café cost two to three times as much as any of the entrees at Jose's. Marie searched the menu for the cheapest item. "Umm . . . oatmeal, please."

Logan raised an eyebrow at her and turned to the waiter. "Better bring us an extra plate of bacon and eggs too."

The sharply dressed, neat-as-a-pin waiter nodded. "Excellent. We'll have it out shortly."

Marie watched him disappear before turning back to Logan.

His eyes traveled between her and the waiter several times, but he said nothing.

"Thanks again," she told him, trying to smile. She wasn't entirely sure she was successful.

He sighed, reaching across the table for her hand. "Quit thankin' me, darlin'. It's just breakfast. It's not a big deal."

"It is to me."


	33. The Talk

Marie felt painfully full, but she tried to finish a little more of the eggs and bacon. She didn't want to appear ungrateful. "So . . . so what do you do, Logan?"

He downed the contents of his coffee mug. "Uh, security. Mainly. And I train . . . I teach self defense."

Security. That sounded important. Marie bit her lip, trying to think of something else to ask or say about that. But she didn't want to say something ignorant or come off stupid, so she just looked down and kept her mouth shut.

"What about you?" he asked. "How'd you end up in Anchorage?"

She really didn't know how to answer that. "Long story. So do your friends, um, do they all do security too?"

He gave her a pointed look. "Not really. We all work at the same private school, though. Where ya from?"

The smell of honeysuckle and the sound of crickets chirping flashed across her mind. "Mississippi, originally. But I've seen all the Midwest and Canada." At that, she smiled. It was one of the few accomplishments in her life she was proud of.

One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Surely not _all_ of Canada."

Marie rolled her eyes. Of course he wouldn't be impressed. "Well, if you wanna get technical. I been to every province. That better?"

He took her hand, rubbing lazy circles with his thumb. "Mmhmm. And how'd you manage that, sweet thing? I know that Civic didn't make it cross country."

"Hitchhiked," Marie said with a casual roll of her shoulder, hoping he would let it slide.

The look of abject horror on his face suggested he wouldn't. His hand tightened on hers. "You hitched all the way across Canada? Alone?"

Marie really wanted to talk about something else now. "Yeah. It was fine. So what kinda business brought y'all to Anchorage?"

Logan rubbed his forehead. "No, no, back up. That isn't fine. Jesus, what the hell were you thinkin'?"

Marie blushed. "I dunno. I . . . thought it'd be an adventure." Dear God, that sounded so stupid. She wished she could take that back, or maybe just sink into the floor or something. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. She should go. She should go.

But his grip on her hand was strong. "So you just up and left one day? Decided to go on an adventure, hitchhike across the country? You got any idea what coulda happened to you, Marie?"

_None of the really bad stuff happened 'til I got to Anchorage, ironically enough._

Logan's words stung. It kind of hurt that he thought she was _that_ dumb. But then, he didn't know about the mutation that all but ensured her safety if worse came to worst. "I didn't 'just up and leave'. I got turned out by my folks. I always wanted to see Alaska and knew hitchin' was the only way I'd ever get here. Didn't seem any worse than livin' on the street."

His expression softened fractionally. "Why'd they turn you out?"

"Why're y'all here on business?"

He didn't answer.

Neither did she.


	34. The Yes

"Thanks again for breakfast," Marie said once they got back to the room. With the way their first real conversation had stalled down there, she figured Logan was probably having second thoughts about her. She'd just make a graceful exit. She grabbed her duffle. "I, um, I have some errands to run, so . . ."

Logan's eyes were fixed on her bag as his gaze followed her to the door. "You're comin' back," he said, and it may or may not have been a question.

Marie sighed. So much for a graceful exit. "Logan . . ."

He walked over to her and tugged the bag off her shoulder, tossing it on the foot of the bed. "You're comin' back," he said again, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, though nervous shadows danced around his eyes. He wrapped his arms around her. "Back to this hotel and back to New York with me. That's just—that's how it's gonna be. I'm keepin' you."

Her mouth fell open. "Is that so?" she asked, amazed at his presumption.

He nodded, leaning into her, his lips a hair's breadth away from hers. "Uh huh. You traveled half the damn continent with strangers, Marie. So I'll be goddamn offended if I can't get you to hitch a ride to New York with me. Got an apartment in Westchester. Plenty of room. I leave tomorrow. You gonna be ready?"

Marie was floored. "I—I—I dunno," she said dumbly.

He brushed his lips across hers, pulling away with a shrug. "Okay. I'll wait. Day after tomorrow?"

She shook her head, grinning in disbelief. "Logan. This is crazy."

He kissed her again and walked her backwards, pressing his full body into hers and pinning her to the wall. He rubbed up against her deliciously, and they both groaned. "Do you feel that? That's the best thing I ever felt in my life, darlin'." He nuzzled his cheek to hers and seemed to be smelling her again. "That's heaven, right there. All the other shit, it'll work itself out. We'll work it out. I'll take—"

"—care of me," she finished. "I—I s'pose New York couldn't be any worse than Anchorage." Wow. Did she really say that?

His hands twined with hers. "That a yes?"

"Oh God. I'm outta my damn mind. Y-yes."


	35. The Errand

Marie pulled into the parking lot at Jose's Cocina. Logan hadn't wanted her to drive her old car, but in the end he conceded, shoving his room key and cell phone into her jacket pocket and telling her to call 'Munro' from the contacts list if she needed him.

It was Sunday, so the restaurant was closed. But Jose always came in on Sundays to do the books. She pulled in next to his car, trying to clear her head before she went inside.

_How long 'til Logan gets bored of you?_

_From stripper to sex toy. Way to move up the ranks, slut._

_He's going to realize you're not worth it._

_This is just the latest mistake in a long list of mistakes, you stupid girl._

Marie's inner montage was having a field day. Nameless voices, hateful and demeaning. The only two who didn't have anything to say were Cody and Tina. They were never cruel to her. But then, they never tried to help her, either.

Feeling stronger than she had in ages, Marie cut right through their bullshit, banished every doubt with a single question: _What do I have to lose?_

She turned off the car and stepped out, an all-too-familiar fear roiling in the pit of her stomach as she made her way to the door. _Last time_, she consoled herself. _This is the last time I'll ever have to see him._

She took a deep breath, brushed her sweaty palms against her jeans, and steeled herself to face Jose.

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX**

Author's Notes: Yay for quick updates :). Expect a few more chapters tomorrow. **Wishyouknew**: I agree, that's definitely the way to update—especially when the chapters are so short ;) hope you had a great Thanksgiving! **Mmendoza**: Glad you think so. Thanks for reading! **Clever Lass**: Glad you're liking the story. I liked Scott's 'oh crap what did I do' moment as well. Lucky for him Logan has a lot of restraint! **Winter winds:** Thank you so much for the kind review :). I'm really glad you're enjoying the story, and I definitely agree with you that Logan's feral instincts are a big part of what makes him such an interesting character. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story! **Jinx**: Way to hit the nail on the head. I so agree with your assessment there. Marie will start to realize she has that inner strength as the story progresses, and she will learn to own it for sure ;). Thanks so much for taking the time to leave your thoughts!

We're about at the halfway point in the story now. If you have any concerns, suggestions, or (duh) praise, please leave a review =D. Thanks!


	36. The Trick

Marie stepped inside, the door chime reverberating through the dim, deserted restaurant.

Jose looked up from the cash register, and his expression turned meaner than usual. All of Marie's senses went on alert. He ran his tongue across his teeth, looking her up and down as if he were hungry-and not in a sexual way.

Marie folded her arms across her midsection, staying near the door. _Last time_, she told herself again. _Gonna be fine. Just get through this._ "I—I—um, just droppin' by to get my pay and my tip share. Sir," she added.

He said nothing.

Marie wasn't sure what his silence meant. That was what she hated most with him: the uncertainty. Her fear ratcheted up a notch. "You promised, remember? Last night you were s'posed to—you promised." She hoped that didn't come out whiny. Or accusatory. Or wrong in any way. Her chest began to feel tight.

His expression turned placid, and that made Marie even more wary. He waved her over, going back to counting the bills. When she didn't budge, he rolled his eyes and waved her over again. "Come here,_muñeca_," he coaxed. "I stopped by last night, but you were already gone. I'll pay you now."

She knew he was lying about coming by last night. But she didn't know if this was a trick. Sometimes he could be nice like this . . . but usually . . .

She would have to come within arm's reach to get her money from him, one way or another. Marie debated whether it was even worth it, whether she should just forget the money and disappear and hope he never found her.

But she needed to get some funds for herself, in case—well, in case Logan decided he didn't want to 'keep' her anymore.

_Don't be a wimp. It's just pain. Get over there._ Her teeth caught her lower lip, and her purposely bare hands fidgeted as she tentatively made her way around the tables to Jose.

When she came up a couple of feet short of him, he reached out as if to beckon her again, but darted at the last second and grabbed her hair. He fisted his hand and pulled hard, jerking her toward him and twisting her head awkwardly.

Marie yelped. _I'll drain him,_ she told herself, as she always told herself, trying to bend her head back the way he wanted so he wouldn't pull her hair any harder.


	37. The Snake

_I'll drain him_. But the idea of having Jose in her head . . . the things he would say . . . the things he might make her do . . . she had never been able to make herself touch him before. _But I'll do it if I have to. I will._

His fingertip pressed into the mark on her neck. "You didn't tell me you had _un novio_, Maria." He let her go, chuckling to himself, and went back to counting his money.

Marie took a step backwards, forcing herself to be calm. Dead inside, just dead. It was an odd sort of strength, but the only one she knew how to draw upon. _I'm nothing. I'm nobody. It doesn't matter if he hurts me. I don't care._ "Sir, my rent's up. I just need my pay, please." Her voice came out hollow and toneless.

Ever so slowly, he circled around her, backed her into the counter, and slapped the stack of bills he had been counting against her cheek, then trailed them over her lips and down her neck.

_I'm nobody. I'm not here._

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. We need to talk first. You know what I don't appreciate, _muñeca_?"

His teasing voice pulled her back. She had come to recognize that tone, like the rattle of a snake before it struck. This was not a good day to mess with him. _I should have left. I should have just left. Stupid, stupid, stupid_ . . .

"What I don't appreciate is when some white _puta_ thinks she can get away with holding out on me."

She never held out on him. Never. He took thirty percent, and sometimes she even padded her tips from her own money to make sure he wouldn't think she was cheating him. "I dunno what you're—"

"_¡Cállate puta_!" The back of his hand connected with her cheekbone, and she cried out more from surprise than the pain that blossomed all along the right side of her face.

This was nothing. He could have split the skin and left her dazed and teary-eyed. He was just looking for a reason to hit harder, and she didn't intend to give him one.

At least, that was the best she could figure. She had never really understood Jose's unique brand of cruelty, try as she might. Maybe if she understood it better, she could figure out how to avoid it.

As it was, she just hoped she never had to endure it again after today.


	38. The Bird

Marie calmly repeated her request that he pay her. As long as she didn't show any pain or fear, he would grow bored of tormenting her. She had learned that the hard way.

He gave her a dismissive look and spat at her feet. "What you gonna do if I don't, _puta_? Tell the cops _el jefe_ made you a food and alcohol license, picked you up out the fuckin' gutter before some pimp could? And now you mad 'cause he won't give you the cash money you don't pay no taxes on? That what you gonna say?" He laughed, a gold canine flashing in the gloomy restaurant, and moved on to count and bundle the next stack of money.

That really was the long and short of it. Marie was powerless in this situation and she knew it. Whatever. She'd think of another way to get a little money. Might make a couple hundred off the car. She turned to leave.

A hand closed down on her bicep, and it may as well have closed over her heart for the fear that bolted through her chest. "Did I say you could leave? You are _my_ bitch, Maria. You don't walk out 'til I tell you to walk the fuck out, _comprendes_?"

"Someone's waitin' for me." She didn't know where that came from. Didn't know why she said it. It was just . . . she had never been able to say that before. It felt like it gave her some kind of power, that Jose would have someone to answer to if he mistreated her.

And she knew the moment the words left her mouth that they were a terrible mistake.

His grip tightened, fingers digging in. Pain shot up and down her arm, almost bringing her to her knees. Her mouth opened in a silent cry.

"Nobody's waiting for you. You are invisible. You are nothing. You are nobody." He shook her by the arm. "Say it!"

Marie's eyes fell closed, the entire world reduced to the sharp stab of pain in her arm. "I'm-I'm invisible." Her voice trembled. "I'm n-nothing. I'm nobody."

His other hand closed over the back of her neck, and her entire body was trembling now. His voice dropped to a lover's whisper against her ear. "I could snap your neck right now, Maria, like a little bird. Throw you in the dumpster with the rest of the trash. Nobody would care."

_Logan would_. After all, hadn't he waited with her last night in the restaurant, made sure she was safe? He would care. He would be . . . at least a little bit sad if she died. At least a little bit.

Jose was wrong. He was wrong and the things he said to her were wrong and the way she let him treat her was all wrong.

So when his hand tightened around her neck, she didn't beg for her life this time. She didn't tell him she'd do anything he wanted if he'd stop hurting her, only to have him reply that she was a whore and he'd never touch her filthy cunt in a million years. She didn't close her eyes and take it silently while she desperately pretended to be somewhere else, someone else.

She turned on her skin.


	39. The Touch

Marie pulled out of Jose's rapidly weakening grip, tried to take a step, and fell to the floor, banging her knees on the hard tiles. She barely noticed as she reeled from the awful thoughts invading her mind.

_What's that on her neck? A hickey. That bitch! That slut!_

_She's getting what she needs from some other man. Getting what you could never give._

_Fuck her. I don't care. Never wanted that filthy, nasty _puta_. Never puts up a fight. Never what I need. Never-selfish bitch!_

Jose was so angry, so jealous. So frustrated that Marie never responded to him the way he wanted. The rage swirled over him like a drug, or a poison.

Marie reminded him of someone. A memory surfaced. His first girlfriend.

_They kissed and touched, peeled away each other's clothes and lay back on the bed. It felt okay. She stroked him for a long time, finally let out a sigh. "Come on. Can't you get it up? What, are you gay?"_

_He was embarrassed. She laughed at him._

_That fucking cunt laughed at him. He backhanded her, climbed on top. Choked her until she almost passed out._

_Not laughing anymore, are you bitch?_

_He grew harder the more she cried. Relished every bruise he beat into her skin, every scream of pain he drew from her throat._

_She begged for her life. That only made him realize how much he really did want to kill her._

_The power he held in his hands right then . . . . A dark thrill went through him as he squeezed and squeezed her neck. Her hands clawed weakly against his, and the blood vessels in her eyes burst as the cartilage of her throat gave way under his crushing grip._

_Her hands fell away. Her body stilled. Her heart slowed, slowed, stopped._

_He came harder than he ever had in his life._

Marie pulled at her hair and screamed, desperate to stop the memories, the feelings unfurling inside her, polluting her mind.

So many girls. He preyed on the invisible ones, illegals and runaways. The ones nobody would miss.

She had always been thankful that Jose never came onto her sexually. Now she realized that cruelty _was_ sex for him. Pain, fear-he got off on beating the defiance out of a woman.

She had never shown him any defiance, never given him what he needed for his release. Until today. She crawled across the floor, tried to fight her way up through the haze of his memories. She tried to stand, but her throbbing knees wouldn't support her.

It didn't matter. She had to get out of there now, because she knew she hadn't put him down for long. She could crawl to the car. She could crawl to it and-

"Hey, bitch."


	40. The Prayer

Marie's head snapped around just in time to see a gasping, panting Jose smiling down at her, the heavy metal cash drawer in his hands.

He swung it into her head with the most horrible crack, and pain exploded behind her eyes as she went sprawling.

She couldn't see, dear God, she couldn't see. Everything was blurry and she blinked but it didn't clear up and all she could think was that she was sorry. Sorry to let Logan down, sorry that he would think she had run out on him.

Because she just couldn't touch Jose again. She'd rather die than live with him inside her, risk turning into that kind of monster.

_This is it_, she thought, still dragging herself dazedly in what might have been the direction of the door. Her mind danced with a thousand half-formed ideas, neurons firing off as if they knew they would never get the chance to fire again: Maybe God was real. Maybe Logan was an angel after all, sent to her at the end. God did that sometimes, didn't He? Sent an angel to help make it easier when you died?

Only, if God was real, she didn't know if she deserved to go to heaven.

Maybe that was why Logan wasn't here with her.

Marie shook those thoughts away, trying not to worry. Whatever happened would happen. There was nothing she could do to change it now.

And then she remembered the phone.

She tried to look around and find Jose, but pain hindered the movement of her neck, and everything was a gloomy blur. Black for the tables and chairs, brown for the walls, and it all looked like an out-of-focus photo.

She managed to get her hand into her pocket, to pull out the phone and flip it open, but she would never be able to read the screen, much less find Munro.

Marie cried, and it only blurred her vision and heightened the pain in her skull even more. She tried to feel the buttons to dial 9-1-1, but she was pretty sure she got it wrong. Nothing happened when she pushed what she thought was the 'call' button, and she cried even harder.

Footsteps pounded on the tiles. _He's coming back._ Marie swung her head toward the noise and instinctively scrambled away from it, banging into a chair and sending it screeching across the floor. "Please," she sobbed, and it wasn't really directed at Jose. "Please."

_Please let it end it quickly. Please don't make me go to hell. Please tell me I had some purpose, that I did some good in the world, that You're real and You made me for something besides just this. Please._


	41. The Blade

The phone was ripped out of her hand. She heard it crunch under Jose's boot. "You shouldn't have done that, Maria. You think it was funny, hurting me like that? I dunno what the fuck you did there, but I'm gonna rip you apart!"

A blur came towards her chest, and her hands flew up instinctively to stop it. Her fingers grabbed onto something and there was a horrible wet hiss as the blade sliced her to the bone. She let go with a scream and pulled her hands into her chest, clenching them into fists and feeling the blood soak through her shirt.

"Not laughing anymore, are you bitch?"

And Marie knew that she didn't exist anymore for Jose. He was back in that little room in Tijuana now, reliving that night with his first girlfriend. Killing her a hundred times, a hundred ways. Over and over again.

The knife found her stomach and slid deep. She felt the hilt against her skin, and it was so cold. So cold. What an odd thing to notice, in the midst of all that pain.

The blade grew warmer each time it returned. He grunted every time he dug it into her, and she didn't even know if she was screaming anymore. He made enraged sounds when he came up short, the blade unable to penetrate her ribs. Still, he got through once, and he must have punctured her lung, because blood burbled up in her throat.

It seemed to go on for so long, so horribly long. When she pulled her arms up to protect herself, he stabbed right through them, and eventually, she couldn't lift them up anymore.

_Am I dead?_ she thought when the knife finally clattered to the floor.

He picked her up.

_Am I dead yet?_ she thought when she felt the cold wind, faintly, on her face.

_I'm dead now,_ she thought as she was thrown from his arms and landed on something oddly soft.

Her eyes flitted open one last time to see the lid of the coffin-the dumpster, her mind supplied fuzzily-closing her in, entombing her.

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX**

Author's Notes: Whew. Writing a murder from the victim's perspective has got to be one of the hardest things I've ever done. Hopefully it worked. Thanks so much for reading folks, and please review. (P.S. Sorry Marie . . .) Also, thanks to doctorg for the beta!

**Winter winds**: Thanks so much for the review! Jose is _definitely_ a creep, as I'm sure we all know now. I hope you enjoy how the rest of the story unfolds (much more happily than these last few chapters, promise!) **Wishyouknew**: Interesting. Well. That's one word for it! Thank you for reviewing :). **Skye**: Thanks so much for your kind reviews. I know these chapters were kinda rough, but hopefully you enjoy the rest of the story! **Suoidkun**: Yay. It was so awesome to log on and see your reviews. Thanks! And sorry about the cliffhanger (the last one and this one LOL). I really appreciate your feedback and couldn't agree with you more. This is an absolute pivotal point of the story and Marie's development/empowerment. Hopefully it worked, but if not, I'd welcome suggestions! **Lord Anubis**: Thank you for the review! Hope you enjoy the story. **Lupinxtonks**: That's so interesting. I just intended for him to be talking about Scott, but yeah it was kind of ambiguous. I love your interpretation there. I think Logan would definitely try to protect Marie from 'Wolverine' as well.


	42. The Souvenir

Having opted not to attend the International Mutant Rights panel with Ororo, Logan leaned against the wall in the reception area, trying his damnedest to look menacing and unapproachable. Jean wasn't kidding about her talk being a success. If one more person came up to him and told him they were sorry for his "ordeal," he'd claw them.

He wondered if Marie was back at the hotel yet. The thought both excited and worried him. He had been formulating strategies all morning, trying to address the swarm of concerns pestering his thoughts.

How long could he keep his mutation hidden from her? How could he explain his feral tendencies? Would she find it strange that they were driving to New York? He couldn't very well board a commercial plane, and he sure as hell couldn't bring her on the Blackbird with the rest of the team.

That brought up a whole new line of questions. How would the team react when they found out he brought home a little souvenir from Alaska?

Not that they really needed to know. They all lived in Xavier's mansion. Marie would live in town with him, and as far as he was concerned she didn't need to have anything to do with the school. He had always kept his personal life private; work was work, and home was home. And Marie was definitely home, he decided.

Taking care of her shouldn't be a problem. He made much more money than he used. And if he were honest, he liked the idea of being the provider. He wanted to hunt for her and build a fire to keep her warm and bring home useless, pretty things just to make her happy.

_Whoa, Wolverine. Back the fuck up._ Marie had barely agreed to come with him, and certainly hadn't committed herself to him beyond that. Not yet, anyway. Logan needed to keep those instincts from running away with him.

The instincts were winning out though, and they were telling him more and more insistently to make her dependent on him so she couldn't abandon him. He knew that was wrong, on some level, to drag her off to an unfamiliar place where he would be the only person she knew. To make her leave her job and rely on him for everything.

But . . . it was only natural.

It wasn't like he was dragging her off to a cave to have his way with her. He just needed her to himself for a while, so he could prove himself to her and show her what a good mate he would make. He wasn't sure if that was normal, if other men did those kinds of things when they found the woman they wanted. He supposed not, but then, he wasn't entirely man.

Logan wished Marie had his senses and instincts, because then everything would be easy. She would smell how right they were for each other, how compatible. Infatuation came and went, relationships constantly changed, but nature endured. And nature made Marie just for him—he could feel it. He just had to find a way to make her feel it, too.


	43. The Phone

Logan caught Ororo's fresh-as-rain scent, and his eyes flitted up in faint surprise. "Over already? Must be my lucky day."

The comment didn't draw the smile he expected. She looked worried as she stepped in close to him and drew her phone from her purse. "I received an alert that your communicator has been damaged, Logan."

His blood ran cold. "Location?"

"Not with you?" She looked at him oddly, but dragged her fingers across the touch screen of her own, much more high-tech, phone. "It would appear that the tracer has been damaged as well. The last GPS signal, however, was sent from . . . I believe this is the restaurant where we ate dinner last night. Did you by chance leave your phone behind?"

"No. What was the last outgoing call?"

"Logan, I don't understand—"

"The last call, 'Ro!" he barked.

"Calm down." She swiped her fingers over the screen of her phone. Her eyes went wide.

Logan took it from her hand, looking down at the display.

_9-9-1-1._

"Fuck."

"Logan?"

He shoved the phone at her and didn't even glance back when she asked where he was going.


	44. The Blood

_Blood_, Logan thought, inhaling deeply, claws sliding out of his fists as he whipped into the parking lot of Jose's Cocina. Marie's car was there. He skidded to a stop and leapt out of the Mustang, leaving the door open and the engine running. His senses pointed him straight to the large green dumpster next to the restaurant. He sprinted to it and tore off the lid—

"_Oh_," he breathed.

That was all. Not a scream, not a howl of rage or anguish. Just the breath abandoning his body as his mind stopped functioning, and his heart twisted and collapsed in on itself.

He picked up Marie, the scent of copper enveloping him so thickly he could taste it in the back of his throat.

"No." He looked down sternly at her and shook his head, laying her out on the ground before him.

This wasn't real. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "No. No."

_Dead dead dead._ "No!"

The side door of the restaurant creaked open, and Logan turned to see a man emerging with an armload of blood-soaked towels.

He saw red.

The man dropped the towels in shock. "What the f—"

"_WHY?_" Logan roared as he charged him, though before the word even left his mouth he was beyond caring 'why.' Nothing this man could say would spare his life.

Logan let the animal take over.

Everything that happened then was a blur of claws and blood and screams of agony that faded all too quickly to groans and gurgles.

He snarled, drove his claws deep and tore the flesh back, until he could see bones splinter and crack under the force of his blows.

His rage was nowhere near sated when the prey's tattered body ceased putting up any resistance, but he left it to bleed out and staggered back to his dead mate, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling his face with hers, desperately drawing in the last of her warmth and scent.

He whimpered into her skin, a low, mournful keening as he rocked her. How could she? How could she leave him like this, right after he finally found her? She said she would stay with him. She gave her word. He didn't even get to show her how much . . .

_This isn't right,_ Logan thought dimly. _She doesn't deserve this. Are You up there, You bastard? After all the shit You put me through, You fuckin' owe me one. Take me instead. My life for hers. You hear that, bub? My life for hers._

Wounds began to open up on his skin.

Logan gasped, feeling the life flow out of him and into her. _It worked?_ he thought incredulously. The gashes opened wider, blood pouring down his body, soaking his clothes. His breath caught in his throat, the pain so overwhelming that he couldn't even form a scream.

He just held onto her tighter.

His life for hers. The first prayer he'd ever had answered.


	45. The Wolverine

_Give him to me!_ Wolverine urged in wordless growls.

Somehow, Marie understood him. She rose dazedly to her feet, gently nudging her mate aside, out of the puddle of their mixed blood. His heart began to beat steadily, the scent of death receding from him, but he didn't wake up. She sniffed at him, reassured that she could still make out his perfect, soothing smell, even under all the blood.

_Marie! Give me the man._

She had a brief moment of lucidity: _Logan. He's a mutant too._ It was almost funny.

Hell, it was fucking hilarious. She laughed, but the laughs turned to hiccoughing sobs as tears began to pour down her face. Too much; it was too much. She lost herself again, swept away in the haze of Wolverine's rage and grief. She yelped at the sting as six claws parted the columns of bone in her hands and slid out between her knuckles. She raised her hands and looked at them in awe.

Her gaze caught the brutalized carcass laying out across the lot. She hadn't noticed before, but her senses registered it now: the faintest of heartbeats. _Alive_. She backed away, terror overtaking her in a swirl of remembered pain. Her back bowed and she curled in on herself. She could still smell the tang of her own suffering—sweat and blood and she must have wet herself at some point too.

_No!_ Wolverine growled, laying a soothing balm over the memories, pushing them out of her awareness. _You don't cower. Ever. Stand up. Bring me the man._

Marie stared again at the sharp bone claws protruding from her skin. Her vision was sharper than it had ever been. She could see each tiny individual piece of stone and gravel in the asphalt. She could hear the wind rustling past her ears, carrying sounds and scents from miles off.

_Marie,_ Wolverine snarled, growing impatient.

_So many girls_, she thought numbly, staring at her murderer. Girls buried in the woods. Thrown into rivers. Thrown away like trash. If he died like this, they would all be forgotten. Invisible, nothing, nobody. Just like he wanted.

Swallowing back bile, she ran to the rapidly fading Jose and pressed her fingertip to his forehead.

Tremors ran through her as her body took him in, the last of his wretched life flowing into her. Marie screamed hoarsely and scrambled away from him.

His mind began to coalesce inside hers. She felt the shadows of his memories, dark and ugly, weaving together into his form. The moment he was solid in her mind, he spoke. _Am I dead?_

Wolverine leapt with a roar, burying his claws to the hilt in Jose's chest. He grinned, flashing his sharp canines. _Yeah. Welcome to Hell._

Wolverine turned to Marie. _You don't need to see this._ A curtain swept over her thoughts as he dragged his prey off past the edge of her conscious mind.

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

Author's Notes: Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed! I hope the latest installment answers some questions and makes up (at least a little bit) for the past few chapters. We've got a ways to go yet, but I hope you all will find it worthwhile to follow this story with me all the way to the (happy) end. Please feel free to give feedback, critique, suggestions, whatever. I really do take it all into account as I revise and post the following chapters.

**Ryromaniac**: Yeah, it's hard to imagine how utterly terrifying that would be. It was hard to imagine even what Logan's response would be upon finding her. Shock, pure shock and denial, I suppose. **Wishyouknew**: Don't worry. I'll never leave ya hanging for too long! Especially not with all these great reviews to keep me motivated :). **Skye**: Oh, silly. I hope you know I'd never kill off a main character, and definitely not without putting an explicit warning beforehand. I hate when authors do that grr! **Jester**: Thank you so much for the kind review. It was an emotional chapter to write as well. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. **Br0k3n Ang3l**: Of course there's more. This would be a terrible story if it ended like that LOL. **Jinx**: Woohoo. Thanks so much for your _two_ reviews =D. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. And yeah, Logan might not have gotten there quite in time to save the day, but he made it all right, and he's gonna make sure Jose gets the retribution he deserves. **Jll98765**: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Hope Logan didn't disappoint :). **Jimmbutton**: Thanks so much. I really appreciate you taking the time to leave a review. I'm glad you're enjoying the story! **Lupinxtonks**: Hopefully that happy ending is looking a little more plausible to you now ;). **Suoidkun**: Now that you mention it, I agree with you, about Marie possibly getting nauseous and being more frantic to escape, at least before she gets clocked in the head of course. Thanks so much for taking the time to give such thoughtful feedback. As I'm looking back over this, I'll probably take the time to rework that scene a little bit. **Doctor Rose**: Thanks! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. **Austin**: Yes, it was. I hope it didn't put you off the story. **MaNdYcOoKiE**: Thank you! I hope you like the rest of the story :). **Lazydreamer**: This story would suck if I seriously killed her off right there LOL. Don't worry, I'd never do that. Thanks so much for leaving feedback, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the story!

**Scared:** Sorry, but I wrote the murder scene to be horrific and disturbing because murder _is_ horrific and disturbing. To try to sugarcoat it or portray it as anything else would be doing the actual victims of those crimes a disservice, in my opinion. That said, I completely agree with you that violence shouldn't be just some form of mindless entertainment. But I hope you can appreciate that I wrote the murder for a reason, and that it's a pivotal point in the plot, not just something I threw in there. Jose was a serial killer, and Marie is going to make it her purpose in life to find justice for his victims (remember the scene where she's praying to do some good in the world, to be made for a greater purpose than just dying at the hands of some murderer?). Well, I hope that explanation helps, but I am very sorry that you found the murder scene so disturbing and scary.


	46. The Scene

"My God," said Jean.

Scott pressed his hand to his forehead, still trying to process the scene before him. "Uh, Storm, some cover. Give us some cover," he stammered.

Mist rose and swirled around the perimeter of the restaurant, thickening until it was nearly opaque. "I can see now why Logan took such an interest in the waitress," the weather witch remarked with her usual stoicism.

"Yes," Jean replied numbly. "She's . . . she must have some kind of feral mutation. Just like him."

"Just like him," Scott repeated.

The girl crouching over Logan's body bared her teeth and growled at them once more, flashing her ivory claws in an unmistakable threat.

"I can't get a read on her; her thoughts are a wild mess. Like Logan when he gets really far gone. Do you think she . . . did that?" Jean asked, gesturing to the eviscerated, all-but-dismembered corpse lying out across the lot. The last time any of them had seen a body in such shape was when Wolverine single-handedly stopped a terrorist attack on the school.

Scott shook his head. "I don't know. She might be hostile. But . . . it looks like she's, uh, sort of—"

"Guarding him," Ororo finished with a curious tilt of her head. "She's guarding him. Why, look at that."

The girl had dropped her head to nuzzle Logan and lick his cheek. She smoothed his hair away from his temples, glancing up occasionally to growl at the X-Men and drag his unconscious form away from them a few inches at a time.

"That's weird," Scott commented. "What the hell happened here? If she didn't take out Logan, who did?"

Jean retrieved a black tactical bag from the SUV. "I don't know, but she can't or won't talk to us, and I for one have no intention of getting near those claws. She could be working for the Brotherhood for all we know. But I won't be able to assess the extent of Logan's injuries until I get a closer look."

"We shall have to tranquilize her," Ororo conceded.

Jean looked between her teammates, holding out two vials in her palm. "But should I use the regular sedative or the one Hank designed for Sabertooth?"

Scott gestured at the girl, eliciting another, slightly more vicious growl. "It's safe to assume she has a healing factor, don't you think? With claws like that? I mean, she'd have to, right?"

Jean's worry seeped into Scott's mind as she stared down at the vials. "If she has a healing factor, the weaker tranq won't take her down, and we'll have one angry feral on our hands. But if she isn't a healer, the stronger tranq could kill her. I . . . I don't feel right taking that risk."

"Me neither," Scott said. "Listen, in the interest of full disclosure, I—I sort of stumbled on Logan and this girl together in his room this morning. Logan, he went all animal, nearly broke my neck for interrupting them. I guess he's got some kind of claim on her. And by the looks of it, the feeling is mutual."


	47. The Plan

"A claim on her? Don't be crass," Ororo said. "Logan's not an animal. I'm sure he doesn't think in those terms."

"Really?" Scott asked. "Because I'm not sure about anything when it comes to Logan. I've worked with the guy for years, yet hardly know him. None of us do," he said uncomfortably. "And there's no denying he was more animal than man when the Professor picked him up in Canada. He was—well, he was like this girl is now."

Jean placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. "So, um . . . Logan got upset when you interrupted him with her?"

"Yeah. Very upset."

"Not—not homicidally upset," Ororo said weakly, as all of their gazes turned towards the dead man.

Scott's jaw dropped. "God. You don't think—?"

"We shouldn't jump to conclusions," Jean said quickly, and Ororo nodded.

Scott took a deep breath, the full weight of the situation finally hitting him. "We have to get them out of here," he said. "Both of them. Back to the school. We can figure out this mess once we get there. I'll fetch the jet. Storm, keep this place hidden. Jean, you'll need to, uh, _encourage_ any passersby to head another way. If Logan isn't awake by the time I get back, you can move him telekinetically into the cargo hold. It's a safe bet the girl will follow him."

"And what?" Jean asked. "We lock them in like a pair of wild animals and haul them home to Westchester?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

She stuffed the tranq darts back into her tactical bag. "Well, no. But—but you're suggesting we abandon the scene of a potential _murder_, Scott. This is serious!"

"Yeah," he replied, "I'm well aware of that. Christ, if the police show up now, the entire Xavier School could come under fire. Which is why we've got to get out of here. Even if Logan did—"

"He would never," Ororo hissed, a storm brewing in the depths of her eyes. But despite her defense of her friend, she didn't sound too certain.

Scott looked at her steadily. "Even if Logan did kill that man, he deserves a chance to tell his side. He won't get that here. A crime like this, during the Mutant Affairs Convention—don't you see? This could have political ramifications for all of us. And if the girl is the murderer, well, she's clearly a mutant too. It's just not right to leave her. We'll see justice done, but it isn't going to happen through our country's legal system, not in a case like this. Fe—people like her and Logan, they'd be put down like animals. We have to get them out of here. Now."

"You make a good point," Ororo said, turning her gaze to the wild-eyed, snarling girl.

Jean threw up her hands, at a loss for a better option. "Agreed."


	48. The Flight

Scott glanced at the monitor only occasionally. The security camera in the cargo hold had been turned on for the first time in his memory, displaying a low-ceilinged, dimly lit room, its metal walls liberally gouged with claw marks.

It took nearly twenty minutes for the girl to calm down after they closed her in. At last, she accepted the futility of her efforts and sank to the floor, bone-white claws sliding back into her forearms. Scott marveled once more at how similar her mutation was to Logan's. What were the odds? There was definitely something strange going on there.

The girl crawled behind stacks of crates and emerged into view next to Logan's prone form. He didn't stir at all as she peeled away his sticky, blood-crusted jacket and shirt, throwing them into the farthest corner of the room. She reached for his belt.

Scott cleared his throat awkwardly, looking away.

By the time he turned back, his teammate was fully stripped—and the waitress was down to her underwear. "Uh, Jean!" he said, his voice an octave higher than usual.

She looked at the screen, then quickly away. "Oh my God. Seriously? That's just—what is she—I mean, we can't just let her . . . molest him . . . oh, she's . . . hm, maybe she's just cleaning him off."

Scott dared to peek at the monitor again. The waitress made use of a blanket and bottled water to clean Logan and herself. There was a great deal of blood, but she scrubbed them both down with the wet blanket before opening the second bottle of water and pouring it through her matted hair. They were still nowhere near clean, but better than they had been. She was visibly shivering by the end of it.

Jean fiddled with her seatbelt. Scott felt sympathy, and oddly, a hint of guilt coming from his fiancée. "God, poor thing. I didn't realize she was so . . . you can see every one of her ribs. I don't—I don't think we should risk getting in there to give her another blanket, but I'll go turn up the heat."

"Good idea," Scott said. When he looked back at the screen, the girl had curled herself against Logan's side. Her shivering slowly abated.

Jean briefed the Professor. Ororo calmly monitored the weather. Scott tried to keep his focus on piloting the plane.

Yet over the course of the next hour, he found his gaze repeatedly drifting back to the monitor. At first, there was no sign of the normal waitress he vaguely remembered. The girl before him was little more than an animal. He was both appalled and strangely intrigued by her efforts at grooming his teammate.

Logan showed no signs of waking as the feral woman sniffed him, lapped at his neck and cheeks, and pressed her near-naked body into his for warmth.

As time went by, she stopped licking his skin and began instead placing gentle kisses.

She laid her head down on Logan's shoulder and rubbed her hand in slow circles over his chest.

Finally, Scott glanced at the monitor to find her face buried in the crook of Logan's neck, her shoulders shaking with sobs. He felt an unexpected pang of sympathy, wondering for the first time who this girl really was, and whether anyone was missing her right now.

The next time he checked, she was fast asleep.


	49. The Plea

_We're about to land._

Marie scrambled to her feet, drawing the red-soaked blanket over Logan's lower body and his stiff, filthy coat around herself.

_Hey now, calm down. I told you they're my friends. They'll take care of us. I'll be with you the whole time, 'til the real me wakes up. Stay with me, baby._

She tried to slow her breathing, to still the frenzy she felt overtaking her mind. "Logan, can I—?"

_Yeah. You don't have to ask. Go on._

Marie curled up against his body, taking in the sound of his breathing, the feel of his skin, the smell of him, faint but still there under all the blood. A warm feeling settled over her, and her thoughts calmed.

_Hard to believe that's me, makin' you feel like that. That's it, darlin'. You just hold onto me. Stay with me. When they get here, you're gonna talk to'em and tell'em what happened._

Marie hid her face against his chest, fighting back tears, "I dunno if I can."

_It's not a choice, honey. You have to._

"It's not fair, Logan. I'm so tired. I just wanna forget. I wanna forget everything."

_I can't take it away. But I'll help you through it._

"Thanks."

_Don't thank me. Just stay with me, Marie. Stay with me._


	50. The Questions

"How old are you, Marie?" Dr. Grey asked.

Marie was tired. She had spent most of the last two days being questioned and prodded by Professor Xavier. She didn't want to answer another question as long as she lived. Her chair scraped the floor as she dragged it closer to Logan's bed and laid her head down on the papery white sheet. "Old enough," she whispered.

"Old enough," Dr. Grey repeated. "The medical examiner in Anchorage has given a press release. He concluded that Jose Treviño was mauled by a bear. Is that what happened, Marie?"

She turned her face into the sheet, listening to Logan's heartbeat, the rush of blood through his body, the breath filling and escaping his lungs, the beep of the machines monitoring him. "I already told the Professor everything," she mumbled into the sheet.

"I'm not asking the Professor. I'm asking you."

Marie looked up just in time to see the doctor sweep her vivid red hair behind her shoulder. She was without question the smartest, most sophisticated woman Marie had ever seen. She dressed like someone out of a magazine. Marie was a little bit jealous, but mostly just in awe of her. _I wanna be like that_, she thought.

_You're fine how you are, darlin'._

Marie took a deep breath and blew it out. "Yes, ma'am," she said in monotone. "That's what happened."

_Don't call her ma'am. She's no better than you._

_I'll call her ma'am if I want. It's good manners. And she's about a zillion times better than me._ "It was, um, a very big bear."

_That's the bitch who stiffed you at the restaurant. She's not near as nice as you. And she doesn't have big gorgeous eyes and pouty lips like you, baby. She doesn't smell as good as you._

_Oh, hush, Logan. You don't want me gettin' attached to any of these people, do you?_ "It musta been rabid or something."

_I found you first,_ he said almost petulantly. _This isn't how I wanted it, damnit. You were supposed to come stay with me. Just me._

_I will,_ she promised, not for the first time. _Just you, Logan. Just us._ "If Logan wouldn'ta been there, he woulda killed me."

_Oh, Marie . . . wish I could touch you. Touch me, baby._

"He?"

"Uh, the bear." Marie took Logan's big hand in both of hers.

Jean pursed her lips, and Marie could tell she didn't believe a word of it. Marie didn't care. If Professor Xavier didn't want to tell his people the entire truth, that was his business. Logan trusted the Professor, and Marie trusted Logan.

Jean set her clipboard at Logan's bedside. "Alright. Well. I'll leave you. Just ring the bell, and Hank or I will be here if you need assistance."

"Yes, ma'am."

The doctor stared at their joined hands. "Mind his claws, Marie. Logan isn't a safe man to get close to."

"I'll take my chances, ma'am."


	51. The Afterlife

Logan lay back on the carpet of leaf litter, watching sunlight filter down through a canopy of foliage. An endless forest. It wasn't really how he expected it to be. But peaceful enough, he supposed.

He started at the sound of footsteps, leaping to his feet and whirling around. "Whoa. Chuck. Didn't expect to see you in the afterlife." _Why would he be here? What, is he my conscience or somethin'? Holy shit—is he God? That would make a freaky kinda sense . . ._

A small smile played at the man's lips as he walked easily across the clearing. "You're not dead, Logan. Merely unconscious. The team found you in a parking lot in Anchorage and brought you back to the school straight away. You're in the infirmary."

A sinking feeling settled over him. The sunlight faded away, the trees withering around them. "No," Logan said in disbelief. "No, I—I don't believe that. I gave my life. I gave—" he shook his head. "It worked, Chuck. I could feel it. It worked." He turned away, refusing to listen anymore. This wasn't Chuck. Probably some demon sent to torment him, fill him with doubts. Figures he would get sent to hell.

"Oh . . ." the old man said contemplatively. "Oh. I see. You and the girl. Yes, that did work. In a way, it is just as you believe. You gave your life to her. She's here. She's fine."

Logan turned to Xavier, looking him over skeptically. "Really?"

Xavier nodded. "She is a mutant, you see, one who can absorb the mental and sometimes physical qualities of those she touches. In your case, she absorbed the ability to heal. And the, ah, other aspects of your mutation as well."

No way. It was too good to be true. Wasn't it? "She was dead, Chuck. I felt it. No breathing, no pulse. She was gone. How do you heal from that?"

Xavier merely stared at him with those inscrutable gray eyes, lifting and dropping his shoulders in an elegant shrug. "Who knows? Perhaps it was a miracle. In any case, she is here in the infirmary and has been waiting many days to see you. Are you ready to wake up?"

"I . . . shit. Yeah, alright."

Xavier chuckled. "Then follow me." He led Logan out of the woods.

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX**

Author's Notes: Woohoo. Done with finals and ready to get this story wrapped up over the holidays—and get back to _Feral_. Hope you enjoyed the latest installment! They were kinda 'necessary' chapters to push the plot along, but I tried to make them as quick and painless as possible, heh. Please review!

**Wishyouknew**: I have to agree with you there. Logan's feral side is very interesting, both to read and to write! **Skye**: Yep, if anyone deserves to be imprisoned in the mind of the girl he murdered with the man who loves her doling out his eternal punishment, it's Jose =D. **Austin**: Thanks so much. I'm very glad you're enjoying the story! **Jinx**: Thanks for the review! Circumstances may have conspired against them a bit, but you're very right about Logan still wanting to get her to himself for a while. And I don't think Marie minds that one bit :). **Suoidkun**: Thank you so much! I'm glad you're attached to the story—although that does raise the standard for me a bit, huh? Hope this batch of chapters didn't leave you wanting. They felt a bit disjointed, but I kinda wanted to rush through the boring plot stuff and get back to Logan and Marie (hey, who can blame me? ;) **Lazydreamer**: Ha, sorry his death wasn't slow and torturous enough for you ;). Thanks so much for the review! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. **Doctor**: Sorry about the wait =) Thanks for reviewing! **CraZy**: Thanks very much for reading and reviewing! I hope you like the rest of the story. **Random**: Yep, lucky Logan. Of course, being instinctively attracted to someone and actually _knowing_ and _loving_ them are two different things. If Logan thinks instinct is all it takes to build a relationship, he's in for a surprise ;P. **Stampiej**: Thanks for taking the time to review. I'm very glad you've enjoyed the story so far. **Compa16**: Yes, please do :). Glad you're enjoying the story.


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